


The Peace of Wild Things

by ariadneslostthread



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Caretaking, Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sickfic, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-12
Updated: 2013-09-15
Packaged: 2017-12-05 03:33:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 35,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/718402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ariadneslostthread/pseuds/ariadneslostthread
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Series of vignettes featuring the Chief, the Guide and the Centre. And an obscene amount of h/c.</p><p>1. “Good.” Enjolras says with finality. “Now, if you will all excuse me, I’m going to lock myself in a darkened room for a few hours.”</p><p>2. Combeferre sighs as he looks from Courfeyrac to Enjolras and back, “I don’t feel entirely myself tonight, to be honest.” He smiles weakly.</p><p>3. It is a quiet, reserved sort of concern and love which entirely suits Enjolras so he is happy to share the sofa and pile of blankets with Courfeyrac, their legs tangled together like some sort of two headed, phlegm-ridden blanket monster, coughing and sniffling to his heart’s content without feeling self-conscious. </p><p>4. Courfeyrac. It isn’t until he’s retrieved his toothbrush from inside the bathroom cabinet that he catches sight of himself in the mirror, and lets out a horrified scream.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Crown Weighs Heavily

“Good.” Enjolras says with finality. “Now, if you will all excuse me, I’m going to lock myself in a darkened room for a few hours.”

And then, turning on his heel, he does just that, his bedroom door closing with a decisive snick. 

Most of Les Ami’s assembled in the apartment stare, puzzled, at the door, then turn quizzical and worried looks at Combeferre.

Combeferre shrugs, “He’s fine. Probably the start of a migraine. I’ll check on him in a few hours…”

They leave in bits and pieces, rounding off any final bits of organisation to be done between them in order to carry out Enjolras’ plan and his orders. 

Dutifully, Combeferre eases his friend’s bedroom door open a few hours later, wary of the light from the living room. But Enjolras is fast asleep, curled around a pillow, so Combeferre leaves him to it. 

It’s only, hours later, when Combeferre hears the door to the bathroom between their two rooms open and close, followed by the sounds of heaving his concern piques again and worry settles in the pit of his stomach. He waits until the sound of retching finishes, and the door opens and closes again before getting up and collecting supplies from around the apartment. 

He’s even quieter than before, even turning the main light off before cracking the door open. Enjolras is on his back now, stiff and still, eyes shut. Combeferre sits gingerly on the bed beside him. It’s a sign of just how bad the migraine is that Enjolras doesn’t notice him until the bed dips; he keeps his eyes closed but smiles just a tiny bit. 

Combeferre put his hand on Enjolras’ shoulder, then moves it, slowly so Enjolras knows what he is doing, to gently touch his forehead. 

“Tad warm.” Combeferre says, voice soft.

Enjolras nods minutely, forehead creasing with pain under Combeferre’s fingers.

“Have you taken any Migraleve?”

Enjolras answers no with a small tip of his head from side to side. 

Combeferre sighs and reaches into the basket of things he’s brought in with him. “I’m going to give you a shot.” He says. 

“No.” Enjolras says, fixing Combeferre with a severe look. “I’m alright…it just…hurts…” he whispers, the last word barely audible.

“No, you’re not. You vomited?” Combeferre knows this but waits for a response.

“You heard?” Enjolras says, a faint blush colouring his cheeks. 

“Mmmhmm. You vomited and I’m fairly sure you’re half blind from pain. You know you need it.” Combeferre reiterates firmly, drawing a few CC’s of analgesic into a syringe.

Enjolras bites his lip. He hates the medication, it dulls his thoughts, makes him feel weak and drowsy and entirely out of sorts but can’t really argue with Combeferre in this condition. Finally he relents and allows Combeferre to inject him. Relief isn’t quite instantaneous, but the ice pack wrapped in a soft cloth Combeferre puts on his head is.

They have this routine down now. The migraines are increasing in frequency, with the increasing stress of political rebellion building on them all. Combeferre finds his own stress relief in this somehow, caretaking, the simplicity of knowing what his friend needs, rest and comfort, and the migraine is the device to force his stubborn friend to take it. They are his principal cause for concern, for stress, his friends. This one in particular. 

He sits for a moment longer, one hand loosely entwined with Enjolras’ fingers, the other ghosting soft trails over the bridge of his nose, his cheeks and temples. 

“Rest.” He says after a few moments. “I will wake you in a few hours; you need to eat.”

Enjolras pulls a bit of face at that but nods as he rolls over, curling up again into a ball around the much abused pillow.

It turns out that Combeferre doesn’t need to wake him after all. Dark has fallen, and Combeferre is enjoying the peace of their apartment without a variety of Amis littered about the place. He is reading, something for fun for a rare few hours of relaxation, only the lamp at his side for illumination and his quilt over his legs. It is cosy and he is content. He hears Enjolras’ door open, hears him move slowly across the room and sink onto the sofa, silently leaning into Combeferre’s side. 

Combeferre extracts his arm, and puts it around the other man, pulling him into a more comfortable position for them both. Enjolras has dragged his own quilt with him and between them they could probably survive a small ice age, curled up together on their sofa. 

“Feeling better?” he asks, voice still soft. 

“You drugged me.” Enjolras replies, but there is no venom in his voice, amusement perhaps and gratitude.

So he replies “You’re welcome.” He transfers his book to his other hand, the one whose arm is currently around Enjolras’ shoulders, for a moment to reach up and press the back on his now free hand to Enjolras’ forehead. “You were warm earlier. Still are, but I can’t tell if it’s a fever or not.” He says. “Are you sure the migraine was just stress, or do you feel like you’re coming down with something?”

Enjolras shrugs and closes his eyes, limp against Combeferre’s side. He looks comfortable, and he’s not hot enough to worry Combeferre into fetching a thermometer so he leaves him be, for now. 

“What are you reading?” Enjolras asks.

“Going Postal. Terry Pratchett. It’s about a con artist who takes over a post office…humour, fantasy…it’s silly really.” Combeferre admits with a slight flush. He doesn’t usually read anything which is quite so frivolous but after an intense week he needs this as decompression. 

Enjolras tips his head onto Combeferre’s shoulder, creating a warm, heavy weight there. “Read aloud?”

Combeferre is only slightly startled by the request. This is what they do, particularly when one of them is ill or hurt, they sit together in the almost dark and read to each other. However, usually it’s something vaguely political or philosophical. He isn’t sure he can do justice to the way Pratchett’s characters sound in his head, or indeed, his comedic turn of phrase. Nevertheless, he picks up reading where he left off, pausing occasionally to explain the back story where necessary.

He is interrupted in due course by the vibration of his phone on the arm of the sofa. Before he can regret not turning it off entirely he sees a text from Courfeyrac and flicks the message open with a swipe of his thumb. 

Courfeyrac: How’s ‘jol?

It’s an old nickname for Enjolras used only between the three of them, otherwise confusion with Joly occurs.

_Combeferre: Not well. But the migraine seems to have backed off, thankfully._

_Courfeyrac: Can I do anything?_

Combeferre is about to text back no, but changes his mind.

_Combeferre: you could be an absolute dear and source some dinner for us… I’m not sure what is in the cupboards and ‘jol is currently asleep on my arm._

“M’not asleep.” Enjolras murmurs, very sleepily, from Combeferre’s shoulder.

“But you’re comfy,” Combeferre replies smoothly, squeezing his shoulders to dispel any thought of moving. Combeferre is comfy too, and warm, so they stay as they are. 

Courfeyrac doesn’t reply. Just as Combeferre goes to text him back to question the dinner situation (comfy and warm, yes, but hungry also) he hears a key in the lock and sees Courfeyrac slip in, bag clutched to his chest. He pauses there for a moment, in the doorway, heart flooding with affection at the sight of the two of them on the sofa, under a mound of quilt.

He deposits the bag on the breakfast bar and comes to the sofa, dropping to a crouch in front of Enjolras. 

“Hey ‘jol. Alright?” he asks softly, rearranging blond curls from Enjolras’ forehead. It is one of the many beautiful things about Courfeyrac, Combeferre thinks, this pure tenderness and affection a counterpoint to his vivacious, effervescent and boisterous standard operating system.

Enjolras smiles at the tenderness. “Yeah. Better now, ‘fey.”

“I’ve brought a variety of options for dinner. Wasn’t sure what we’d be able to coax you to eat if you weren’t feeling well.”

He goes back to the kitchen and starts pulling containers from the bag. “Soup, chicken – standard, sick food.” He says. “Stew, beef. Pizza. Array of Thai bits and pieces. Cereal. Milk. Bread, for toast. Ooo, chocolate spread.”

It’s a random collection of things, clearly collected in a rush but with a vague sort of thought into what may or may not be in the cupboards and what Enjolras might actually eat.

The three of them end up on the sofa together eating the strangest dinner any of them has had in a while, pick and mixing from all of the things Courfeyrac has brought. They barely have to chide Enjolras into eating at all, as he manages cereal, a selection of fresh fruit and picks at the Thai food, of which Courfeyrac has gotten his favourites.

Combeferre and Courfeyrac manage to polish off the majority of what Courfeyrac brought, apart from the soup which no one touches, but eventually the continual grazing ceases and Courfeyrac reluctantly gets up, puts the leftovers away and shuffles back to the sofa.

Combeferre has shifted by the time he gets back, budging a very sleepy Enjolras along the sofa so Courfeyrac can tuck himself in under Combeferre’s other arm and tuck the two quilts around all three of them. He holds Combeferre’s book in his hand on the other man’s lap and feels the rumble of the words through Combeferre’s chest as he says them as much as he hears them. On Combeferre’s other side Enjolras is a warm, content weight and for the short while this will last Combeferre feels entirely at peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please do comment! I love hearing your opinions and what you enjoy (dislike?)!


	2. Comfort Comes in Threes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Combeferre's not feeling well. Enjolras and Coufeyrac are there to help.

Enjolras was on the table. There had been potential new members of the Society is attendance tonight so he felt the table top rousing speech was entirely necessary, it was recruitment, advertisement. Above all, it worked. 

A sea of faces looked up at him, fierce with determination, determination to change the world, to follow him, to join their crusade. Les Amis too were caught up in the fervour, despite being used to Enjolras’ rhetoric it didn’t make them any more immune to it. All of them were there tonight, dispersed tactically throughout the crowd as catalysts which turned Enjolras’ words (ably assisted and augmented by Jehan’s poetic turns of phrase) and impassioned cry into the same fire which burned in the heart of every ami, the desire to change the world for good. All but one of their faces was lit up with revolutionary passion as they listened to him speak, cheering and jeering as appropriate; Grantaire as per usual, was watching from the sidelines, smirk on his lips, eyebrow raised sardonically, exuding cynicism from every pore. He caught Enjolras’ eye and rolled his own at him, smirk becoming a grin intended to provoke. Enjolras, however, was in far too good a mood to let Grantaire under his skin tonight and returned the smirk triumphantly and turned back to the crowd, to finish the speech with panache. As he made eye contact with individuals in the crowd, fixing them with his intense gaze, he caught sight of another face which didn’t seem entirely au fai with proceedings, Combeferre’s. Enjolras is thrown, and he falters for a moment, this is most unusual for his friend. He covers the falter smoothly enough and manages to catch Courfeyrac’s eye and make a motion towards where Combeferre is sitting as he closes the meeting, now distracted but still ecstatic with the crowd of new supporters who flood the table littered with sign up sheets and practically overwhelm Jehan and Bossuet.

Enjolras jumps down from the table, and immediately makes his way over to Combeferre. He can see Courfeyrac doing the same thing from across the room, both of them pushing slowly through he crowd, smiling, shaking hands and clapping shoulders here and there as they do so.

Combeferre is staring into the distance and rather pale, Enjolras realises, as he reaches him and doesn’t seem to have noticed that the bustle around him is giving way to mass exodus as people leave the café.

Enjolras drops to his knees before Combeferre and gives his leg a little shake. “’Ferre?” He asks, a concerned line appearing between his brows. 

Comebeferre shakes himself and looks down at Enjolras. “Oh.” He says, a little startled, “The meeting is finished. I…er…”

By now Enjolras is alarmed, and Courfeyrac who has appeared next to them, a hand on each man’s shoulder, and heard Combeferre’s confusion, is equally so. “Combeferre, is something the matter?” He asks, and moves his hand to rest on the back of Combeferre’s neck in a gesture of comfort. 

Courfeyrac is incredibly tactile and is always touching whoever he speaks to, especially his friends. It is difficult to have a conversation with Courfeyrac without him draping himself over you in some fashion. To Enjolras, who is also a tactile person, communicating with subtle nudges and touches, it is one of Courfeyrac’s most endearing qualities that he can switch from his overwhelming boisterous and rambunctious self to this calm, sweet and concerned self in a moment, expressed in one touch.

Combeferre sighs as he looks from Courfeyrac to Enjolras and back, “I don’t feel entirely myself tonight, to be honest.” He smiles weakly.

Courfeyrac’s hand moves move again, this time to press his palm gently against Combeferre’s forehead. “Are you ill?” he asks, peering at Combeferre. Combeferre sighs again, reaches up and turns Courfeyrac’s hand round so the back presses against his skin. Courfeyrac blushes charmingly and turns to Enjolras, “Does he feel warm to you?”

Courfeyrac blushes an d says, “I can’t tell if you’re warm or not. Enjolras…can I…” 

Enjolras is taken slightly by surprised when Courfeyrac reaches out to him with his other hand and presses the back of it to his forehead. He allows it, bemused, letting Courfeyrac compare the two. 

Courfeyrac hmms for a moment, comparing. “Well, you are warmer than Enjolras, and as he’s been shouting from the table tops for the last hour…”

Enjolras reaches out and feels Combeferre’s forehead for himself. It is strangely difficult to tell if someone has a fever if you’re not used to doing so, whichever side of your hand you use, especially in a warm café after delivering an impassioned speech to the masses. “You are, a bit. I think.” He says, worried, to Combeferre. 

Combeferre takes their hands in each of his and gives them a squeeze. “Take me home?” he asks.

“Yes, of course…ah…” Enjolras looks about for a moment, trying to assess if anything needs to be done before he leaves. 

“Go on. I’ll finish up here.” Courfeyrac interrupts his thoughts. “I promised Jehan I’d go through the signup sheets with him, if you’ll be alright…” he drifts off, hand waving about to indicate getting Combeferre home.

Enjolras nods, and dashes about for a minute, delivering swift goodbyes and thanks to Les Amis who haven’t yet departed. Joly shoots Enjolras an alarmed look when he whispers in his ear that Combeferre isn’t feeling well, but gives Combeferre, who is watching Enjolras’ make his rounds, a sympathetic smile none the less.

It takes them longer than usual to reach their apartment, although it is only a few blocks away. Combeferre is a little shaky on his feet, but insists he’s fine, so they go slowly. They chat as they walk, reviewing the meeting. Combeferre might have seemed as though he wasn’t paying attention, but was as observant as ever and agreed with Enjolras that speech and subsequent recruitment went excellently. It was a nice change from the public demonstrations which more often than not ended in a swift retreat.

Comebferre collapses onto sofa before Enjolras can even flick the lights on.

“Oh no you don’t.” Enjolras says, grabbing hold of Combeferre’s arm and pulling him back to his feet. “Bed. Now.”

Combeferre actually whines which makes Enjolras chuckle as he pulls him across the living room and pushes him into his bedroom. He’s changed into pajamas and climbed into bed by the time Enjolras returns, balancing two cups of tea and a plate of toast. Combeferre takes the cups while Enjolras climbs onto the bed to sit cross legged side him.

“Are you hungry?” Enjolras asks, taking back his cup and balancing the plate on one knee. He takes a piece of toast covered in jam; he’s always hungry after meetings, probably because you forget to eat beforehand says a voice in his head which sounds suspiciously like Combeferre.

“Not really.” Combeferre admits, but takes a piece of buttered toast anyway and eats it slowly.

Enjolras reaches over to feel his forehead again. His hands are a bit cold from the walk home so now Combeferre does feel hot by comparison so Enjolras is still none the wiser. He wonders briefly if he should fetch the thermometer but decides against it, trusting Combeferre to tell him what he needs. 

“Do you think you really are coming down with something? You do look a bit pale.” he asks, now working on a piece of heavily peanut buttered toast.

“It’s just a cold, I hope.” Comebeferre replies, but he doesn’t sound sure. “Hopefully I’ll feel better after I sleep.”

Enjolras’ phone buzzes close to his hip and he almost spills tea over the bed contorting himself to pull it out of his pocket. “Courf…” he says for Combeferre’s benefit as he read the text. “Just asking after you.”

Comebferre smiles. “I’m ok. Made of sterner stuff.”

Enjolras texts back something to that effect then finishes the rest of the toast Combeferre clearly doesn’t want. He looks up to find Combeferre watching him over the rim of his cup. 

“What?”

“Just watching you eat that toast like it’s going to run away…” he laughs as he says it.

Enjolras gives him an indignant look. “It’s the first…” he protests.

“I know. I know. I’m teasing.” Combeferre says, still chuckling lightly. “It’s the first thing you’ve eaten since lunch. All day probably if I know you.”

Enjolras raises an eyebrow at him. “Could I go without the lecture?”

Combeferre raises his hands in defence. “No lecture. I promise.” He is quiet for a moment. “I’m sorry I wasn’t much help tonight…”

Enjolras is severely tempted to slap him. He knows for certain the Society would be nothing without Combeferre, that Combeferre carries more than his fair share of the weight in everything he does. Enjolras doesn’t slap him, but fixes his friend with his severest look. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m going to attribute that apology to fever and wipe it entirely from my mind.”

Combeferre smiles, blushing and looks down at his tea. The atmosphere has become strangely emotional and Enjolras has to move to dispel it. “Do you need anything?” he asks standing up.

Combeferre shakes his head as Enjolras gathers up the cups and plate. 

“Alright. I’ll let you sleep. If you do…need anything, I mean, wake me up alright?”

Combeferre nods and slips down under the covers more as Enjolras kisses his forehead lightly. 

“Feel better.”

 

Morning finds Enjolras doing the washing up which has languished in the sink for the past 2 days when he hears a key in the lock. He knows before he turns around it’s Courfeyrac.

“I have breakfast supplies.” He says as he delivers his usual greeting of a bisous from behind.

“Well that’s good as I ate the last of the bread last night.”

“How’s ‘Ferre?” He asks, turning the kettle on. 

Enjolras finishes the final plate and turns around, leaning back against the counter as he dries his hands. “Not up yet, so…” he holds up the thermometer which had been on the counter, waiting. “He needs to phone in sick about now, or leave for the hospital about 15 minutes ago…”

Courfeyrac chuckles and begins to assemble the makings of breakfast and Enjolras knocks lightly on Combeferre’s door. 

“’Ferre?”

No answer. 

He lets himself in and finds Combeferre in more or less the position he’d left him in the night before, but paler, much paler.

Enjolras hates to wake him, when he obviously needs the sleep, but shakes his shoulder gently.

Combeferre blinks and looks up at him. 

“Morning,” Enjolras says softly, perching his left leg on the bed and sitting down. “How are you feeling?” Now when he feels Combeferre’s forehead there is no questioning the heat there.

Combeferre groans as he pushes himself up a bit. “Not good.” He shivers. “Oh, rotten, actually.”

Enjolras holds up the thermometer he has in his hand and gives it a quick shake. Combeferre is obliging as he lifts his tongue. Enjolras tangles his fingers in Combeferre’s as they await the verdict.

It’s Combeferre who takes the thermometer out and looks at it, somewhat dismayed. Enjolras takes it from him and looks for himself.

“Oh. Oh dear. Should I call in for you, or do you want to?” He asks, holding out his phone. 

“Will you?”

Enjolras nods, already scrolling through numbers on his phone and wandering back into the main room.  
Courfeyrac has managed to retain all his fingers and not burn anything it seems and looks up from slicing bread with eyebrows raised in question.

“Sick. Definitely sick. Temperature of 102.4. I’m calling in for him now.” Enjolras informs him while he waits for the call to go through, then repeats much the same to Combeferre’s supervisor on the other end of the phone.

“She says bed rest, fluids, feel better soon and don’t even think of showing your face until you’re entirely better. Not that either Courfeyrac or I would let you.” Enjolras relays to Combeferre moment later. “Hey! What are you…this doesn’t look like bed rest!” Enjolras exclaims as Combeferre climbs out of bed. 

“The sofa counts.” Combeferre replies, wrapping his quilt around himself before shuffling in the direction of said sofa. “Don’t worry. I’m not intending to go anything. I’m not sure I even could.”

He isn’t surprised to see Courfeyrac making breakfast in the kitchen as he carefully settles himself on the sofa. Everything aches, and somehow it’s worse that post-riot soreness and bruises.

Enjolras has trailed after him, with what looks like most of the bedding from their two beds combined. He arranges it around Combeferre, propping him up and tucking him until he chuckles and says “Thank you, ‘jol.”

Enjolras blushes a bit and sits on the edge of the sofa close to Combeferre. Courfeyrac has successfully conjured breakfast and brings it over to them, balancing what is probably to many plates, mugs and condiments on a tray that is probably advisable. He makes it to the coffee table and pulls an armchair up to the table.

“French toast?” Combeferre asks, surprised. “You made me French toast? It’s…”

“Your favourite. I know. You get your favourites when you’re poorly. That’s how it works.” Courfeyrac blushes, the tiniest bit and Enjolras is amused; Courfeyrac is rarely embarrassed and rarely blushes but it seems Combeferre being ill is having a strange effect on him.

Enjolras takes a plate and cuts into bitesize pieces, passing it to Combeferre without a word, so he can eat with one hand and stay mostly lying down. He and Courfeyrac eat with plates balanced on their knees and for several minutes there is peaceful, contented silence. It’s almost like a well-rehearsed dance; they breakfast together often, although Courfeyrac doesn’t usually cook it, and the rhythm of pouring coffee and juice, passing syrup and more bacon is comfortable and familiar. When they’ve finished, and Combeferre has done admirably, Enjolras clears everything away as Courfeyrac climbs under the duvet with Combeferre, insinuating himself under Combeferre’s legs. Combeferre raises an eyebrow at him. “I take it you aren’t intending to go anywhere today?”

Courfeyrac looks at him as if he’s grown another head, (Combeferre definitely doesn’t want another head right now, the one he has aches badly enough). “It’s Saturday.” He replies, as if it explains everything. 

Combeferre had forgotten that; he currently usually has the day shift at the hospital on Saturdays and had forgotten the existence of weekends, but this fact doesn’t actually explain everything.

“And?”

“And?” Courfeyrac questions. “And you’re poorly.” At Combeferre’s continued confused expression he adds, “where else would I be?”

Combeferre is oddly touched, and attributes the surge of emotion to his fever. If his voice is a little thick when he replies to Enjolras’ inquiries about what film to put on the TV he writes that off to his sore throat.

They settle, after several minutes of debating, on a Bond marathon and start with, for no apparent reason, with From Russia With Love. Enjolras climbs onto the other end of the sofa, tucks his legs up under him as Courfeyrac tucks duvet over him, and presses play.

They stay like that for about half an hour, comfortable in companionable silence before Combeferre suddenly sits up, taps Courfeyrac’s arm and says “Let me up a sec…”

Bewildered, Courfeyrac does so. “What’s wrong?”

Combeferre shakes his head, walking carefully, steadily to the bathroom. He doesn’t throw up, but he knows he’s going to, so sits on the edge of the bath and waits. Enjolras appears, drapes a blanket over him and sits beside him.

“Have you thrown up?”

Combeferre really doesn’t want to risk opening his mouth to reply and just shakes his head. 

“But you’re going to?”

A nod. 

“Should I…”

Completely irrationally, Combeferre doesn’t want privacy and shakes his head and rests his shaking hand on Enjolras’ knee. Enjolras wraps his arms around his shoulder and gives him a quick squeeze and then rubs his back in slow, soothing circles. It is then that nausea surges within him and he’s bent over the bowl and has, at last, thrown up. Enjolras’ hand hasn’t stopped it’s movement between his shoulder blades. His other hand is blissfully cool on his hot forehead and holding back his hair from his face. It isn’t long enough to be in any real danger but he infinitely appreciates the gesture. He almost smiles wryly to himself as Enjolras’ hand disappears from his back for a moment and a damp flannel wipes his mouth; he hadn’t known he’d be such a needy patient, nor that Enjolras would make such a good nurse.

“Come on. Let’s get you back to bed, or sofa, whichever, and keeping warm. You can throw up in the bin if you need to again.”

He stands, but is horrified by how shaky he’s become since the journey into the bathroom and groans without intending to. He actually has to lean on Enjolras as they make their way back to the sofa.

Courfeyrac has moved to the end of the sofa, pillow on his lap, which he pulls Combeferre down to lie on. If they keep up this show of concern, care and affection Combeferre is fairly sure he’s going to cry at some point before he’s better.

Enjolras is crouched in front of them, his face pulled into a concerned frown, line between his brows, bottom lip pulled between his teeth. “This isn’t just a cold then?”

Combeferre sighs and shakes his head into the pillow. “No. I”ve thrown up and with a temperature over 102…it’s the flu.” He says, somewhat dismayed. He sits up for a moment, and looks at them both seriously. “I’m sorry, but if either of your stay here for much longer you’re both probably going to catch it from me…”

In response, Courfeyrac pulls him back into his lap. Enjolras lays a soft kiss on his forehead and curls back up on the other end of the sofa by Combeferre’s feet as Bond re-animates from pause on the screen.

Combeferre is thankful that he’s not sick again and can stay where he is, wrapped in blankets and his friends until Bond emerges victorious from his mission and Joly appears in the doorway to the flat.

“Ah…Joly….you probably don’t want to come any further. I’m diseased beyond all reason…” he warns.

Joly nods, and steps into the room. “I know. Enjolras text me. I’m here to look you over.” He’s smiling, as he usually is and looks heartfeltly sorry. “Bossuet already has it. Found him being violently sick at 3 am this morning.” He sits down on the coffee table and feels Combeferre’s forehead with a little wince. Then, reaches over and places a hand each on Enjolras’ and Coufeyrac’s foreheads. 

“You realise you both are probably going to come down with it, if you haven’t already, wrapped up with him like that…”

Both nod against his hand and grin somewhat sheepishly. “Combeferre said the same thing.”

Joly purses his lips. “Well, neither of you have a fever at the moment, so…there’s hope.” He shakes his head, disparaging them both. Turning to Combeferre, “You however…”

Joly rummages around in his doctor’s bag pulling out various pieces of medical paraphenlia. “You have taken your temperature this morning, yes?” he asks as he holds out a thermometer for Combeferre to take. 

“102.4, a few hours ago.” Enjolras provides before he can. “And threw up.”

Joly is feeling the glands under his jaw now, which hurts, and tuts at him. “All swollen.” He takes the thermometer back, inspects it critically and huffs. “102.8 now. Say ah…”

Combeferre does as told, he’s still lying on Courfeyrac’s lap with his feet cradled in Enjolras’. 

Joly is murmuring to himself now, “…tonsils too…sit up a bit…there we go.” Joly has his stethoscope out now, it’s cold against Combeferre’s back. He shivers and starts to think Joly is taking this a bit far now. Joly lies him back down onto Courfeyrac’s pillowed knee and repeats his procedure over Comebferre’s chest, undoing the button of his pajama top deflty with one hand. Combeferre is still a little bemused by all the fuss but is content to lie back and watch his friend work. Joly is a second year resident now, while Combeferre is still an intern as he started medical school later. Their rotations have occasionally crossed over and they’ve worked together a few times but never under the same supervisor since their 5th and 4th year of medical school respectfully.

Joly is doing his buttons back up now, asking a few questions about onset of symptoms and such. Courfeyrac or Enjolras are generally replying for him. 

“Am I dying then?” Combeferre asks, feeling the need to establish at a little control over his own diagnosis, and proactively trying to head off Joly’s hypochondria.

“Luckily no. Flu, as you suspected. Same as Bossuet I think, though you’re worse.” And for a moment Combeferre thinks he’s going to stop there, until… “I’m still a little worried about your…”

Combeferre quickly lays a hand on his arm, “Thank you, Joly. Any instructions?” 

“Er…no, well, none that you don’t already know. Still, it could be…”

“Joly.” Courfeyrac interrupts.

“Ah…yes, sorry.” He drops his head, scratching the back of his neck for a moment. He’s well used to being aborted in his hypochondria by Bossuet or another ami. He gathers himself and shakes his finger at Enjolras and Courfeyrac. “Both of you, wash your hands before you eat…” 

“Yes, Joly.” Both of them reply, Enjolras stands up to walk him to the door.

Courfeyrac holds his arms up to Joly. “I’d get up but…” he indicates Combeferre who, as he has correctly surmised, has no intention of moving. Joly smiles fondly and leans over Combeferre to reward Courfeyrac with the bisous he has demanded.

At the door Enjolras catches Joly with a gentle hand on his arm and says softly, “Thank you, Joly. I’m sorry for calling you away from Bossuet, I was…” he pauses “…worried.”

“I know. It’s just the flu, but it can still be nasty, so keep an eye on him. And yourselves! Call me if he’s worse or either of you show any symptoms.”

“Of course, Joly. Thank you, again. I will.”

They make it upto Pierce Brosnan’s stint as Bond before bedtime is declared, hours and hours later. None of them have watched every film all the way though, dropping in and out of sleep and Enjolras and Courfeyrac cobbling together meals which Combeferre valiantly tries to keep down.

It turns out both Enjolras and Courfeyrac come down with the flu; it’s 3 days, in which they only leave the flat to go to the shop for food or a variety of medicines, before Enjolras wakes to an empty bed in the night and the sound of sobbing from the bathroom between the two bedrooms. 

Enjolras’ first thought is concern that Combeferre has relapsed; he’s eating successfully again, much to everyone’s relief. But as Enjolras pushes open the door to the bathroom it’s Courfeyrac he sees on his knees.

Courfeyrac has refused to leave since he arrived on Saturday morning, and has been sharing with Enjolras ever since.

“Oh ‘Fey.” Enjolras sighs, bobbing down beside him hands immediately going to back an forehead. “You’re red hot.”

Courfeyrac turns to look him, tears streaking his pale face. “I hate, hate, throwing up.” He whispers, before crawling into Enjolras’ outstretched arms. They stay like that for a moment, curled together on the cold tiles of the bathroom floor.

“Come on. Back to bed.” Enjolras lifts most of Courfeyrac’s weight himself, the other man is shaking like a leaf. He tucks Courfeyrac into his bed, putting the bin tactfully close. Courfeyrac grabs his wrist as he stands to leave. 

“I’ll only be a minute,” Enjolras reassures him with a soft smile and a squeeze of his hand. “I’ll be right back.” He darts into the bathroom, then the kitchen, collecting bits and pieces, checks on the fast-asleep Combeferre.

Courfeyrac has curled up, arms around his stomach by the time he returns. Enjolras sits beside him and offers a glass of water. Coureyrac sits up a bit, sips a bit before lying back down. “I’m sorry for…for crying.” He says shakily. “I get a bit…um…needy, when I’m sick.”

Enjolras gives him a look, “I know, ‘Fey. I’ve known you for years. Don’t be sorry, fool. Just let me look after you.” He takes a damp cloth and wipes over Courfeyrac’s tear stained face, as he takes his temperature. “Little bit of a fever, but not too bad. I’ll at least wait until morning before inflicting Joly on you.”

Courfeyrac gives him a watery smile. “Thanks.”

“Do you think you can sleep?”

“My tummy hurts.” Courfeyrac whispers, curling up into a tighter ball.

Enjolras rubs his back, “I can give you paracetamol, if you like? Might bring your temperature down too.”

Courfeyrac nods, and takes the pills form Enjolras, with another gulp of water. Enjolras stays where he is, with Courfeyrac essentially wrapped around him, head almost on his lap, for a little while until he seems to relax a bit.

“Better?”

Courferyrac nods and Enjolras stands and says softly, “I’m going to sleep on the sofa tonight, let you sleep.”

“No!” There’s a deperate edge to his voice. “Please stay with me?”

“’Fey, I know you haven’t been sleeping that well, sharing with me and my fidgeting.” Enjolras has been told he’s an awful bed partner, he fidgets and kicks constantly and he knows Courfeyrac has been awoken many times because of it over the past few nights. He sits back down for a moment, rubbing Courfeyrac’s arm. “You need to sleep. Properly.”

Courfeyrac looks afraid, actually afraid. “Please. Please stay with me. I’m cold.”

“’Fey…”

“Please.”

He looks so afraid and worried that Enjolras relents and climbs over Courfeyrac curl around Courfeyrac. He tucks one arm under the pillow and loops the other one over Courfeyrac so his hand rests on his belly, to let the warmth of his hand seep through the T-shirt Courfeyrac wears. Courfeyrac’s shaky breathing evens out within minutes, and he seems to drift off to sleep. Enjolras lies awake for a while longer, mentally trying to will his body to behave itself during the night for Courfeyrac’s sake.

Courfeyrac and Combeferre spend the next day curled up on the sofa. By now, they’ve exhausted the entirety the Bond franchise and have started on Indiana Jones. Enjolras is now usually to be found sandwiches between both of them, one head, or occasionally both, resting in his lap. The sofa is now somewhat surrounded by discarded tissues, mugs and plates, various books or games or other distractions from the pain and boredom which is illness. He does eventually extract himself from the mounds of feverish boy, once they have drifted off to sleep at the same time for once, and picks up the detritus which surrounds the sofa, does the washing up, makes boths beds and lunch for himself and Combeferre; Courfeyrac refuses food presently. He’s not hungry himself really, but Combeferre will give him a look and it’s just altogether not worth the nagging if he doesn’t.  
He still feels fine, and his forehead doesn’t feel warm at all, although it is hard to tell on himself. Combeferre has checked too, worrying he’s going to get sick too, but, for now, at least Enjolras is fine.

Courfeyrac sleeps with Combeferre that night, so Enjolras can sleep as well as he ever does in his own bed. Enjolras feels strangely alone in his double, on the other side of the bathroom, without Courfeyrac there and he has to remind himself there was a time when Courfeyrac didn’t steal the covers.

He finds them spooning most mornings, or post-afternoon naps, Combeferre wrapped protectively around Courfeyrac as Enjolras had done on the first night. 

It’s another 2 days before Enjolras starts to feel ill too, and it goes straight to his chest. He is spared the vomiting, for which he is eternally grateful, and manfully tolerates the nausea and dizziness. He actually manages to hide his condition for the better part of 2 days, or so he thinks, while Combeferre and Courfeyrac exchange looks as they listen to him cough in another room. They finally manage to pin him to the bed and take his temperature after a particularly violent coughing spell even Enjolras can’t suppress leaves him faint and swaying on his feet.  
He sits shakily for a moment on the edge of the bed, Courfeyrac’s side and presses a hand to his burning chest. 

“That’s it.” Combeferre announces, shifting onto his knees to help Courfeyrac pull him onto the bed between them. “No more trying to hide it. You’re ill.”

Enjolras tries t protest, “Yes, but it’s not so bad…not as bad as you two have been. I can handle it.”

Combeferre is shaking down a thermometer. Courfeyrac has his hand pressed to Enjolras’ forehead. Neither of them appear to be listening to him. 

“’Ferre, he’s burning up.”

Combeferre sighs, and slips the thermometer under Enjolras’ tongue. Enjolras rolls his eyes but lets him, folding his arms across his chest.

Combeferre and Courfeyrac hold a conversation over him, as if he’s not there, discussing his stubbornness, complete disregard for his own health and several other of his faults at leisure. They are teasing, he knows, it is affectionate but somewhat despairing ribbing.

Courfeyrac gives him a kiss on the cheek, smiling fondly at him, to make sure he knows this as Combeferre takes the thermometer back. He presses a hand to his mouth as he check the reading. 

“Christ. ‘jol…you’re running a temperature of 104.”

Even Enjolras is shocked at this. “I didn’t think it was that bad…”

“Oh my…’jol, we need to get you to the hospital.” Courfeyrac’s tone is bordering on panic. 

“No!” Enjolras exclaims. “No…no, please, no. Just…just…call Joly, if you must. I’m alright, really, I am. Please, no hospital. I don’t…” he breaks off, coughing painfully into the crook of his arm.

There are hands on his back, and his chest, all but holding him up. Combeferre’s voice is soft in his ear, “Alright, alright. Calm down. No hospital. I promise. Just Joly. Breathe Enjolras, please.”

Enjolras sucks in a breath, and leans back against the mound of pillows which has been stacked behind him. Courfeyrac has wrapped his arm around his shoulders and pulled him to his side, holding him tight in a reverse of the position which has been the norm for the past week. 

Enjolras lets him, giving in to their worry and the illness, and relaxes into the hug watching Combeferre find his phone and tap out Joly’s number.

“He’s coming as soon as his shift finishes in half an hour.” Combeferre reports as he hangs up. He flips the covers back and stands up.

“’Ferre…don’t….get back in bed. You’re still not…”

“I’m just fetching you some pajamas, because I’m not letting you out of that bed for at least a week so you might as well be comfortable.” Combeferre replies, disappearing into Enjolras’ room for a moment. 

Enjolras protests a little as they manhandle him into pajamas and tuck him into the centre of the bed, then sit either side of him, sandwiching him in as if they are worried he’s going to try and make a run for it. In fairness, this is somewhat based off prior experience with an injured Enjolras who has proven himself to be a difficult patient.

Joly is flustered when he arrives, still in his hospital scrubs and bag in hand. He finds them all in Combeferre’s bed, and has to smile at the sweetness of it. These three are the heart of their society, the heart of the revolution and here they are sick and cuddled together.

Combeferre shifts to the end of the bed when he sees Joly appear in the doorway so he can sit next to Enjolras. 

“You too?” He asks softly, touching Enjolras’ forehead. 

“Me too.” Enjolras replies, coughing softly.

Joly winces, either at the sound of the cough or the fever or both, and sighs. He takes out his stethoscope and warms it as best he can before sliding it under Enjolras T-shirt and onto his chest.

“Breathe in. Out. Again. And again.” Joly murmurs, listening with a frown. “Cough for me.” Enjolras does as requested and Combeferre feels his chest tighten at the sound of it. How did he not notice how bad it was? Joly is still frowning as he moves around to Enjolras’ back and repeats the process.

Once he’s finished the exam and quizzed Enjolras about any other symptoms he sits back, kneeling in Combeferre’s spot on the bed. 

“It’s gone to your chest. You have a pretty nasty chest infection in both upper lobes of your lungs, and a little wheezing in the lower right which I really don’t like the sound of.”

Courfeyrac has his fingers pressed against his lips, and wraps his arms around Enjolras.

“Your fever should drop a bit with rest, but I want to keep a close eye on you. I don’t want you coming down pneumonia.”

Joly may be infamous for his hypochondria and overreaction, but Combeferre knows this isn’t an example of that.

Joly takes Enjolras’ hand between both of his now and looks at him, more serious than any of them have ever seen him outside of a protest. “Enjolras, you have to rest. Complete bed rest. I’m serious.”

Enjolras nods, biting his lip.

Joly turns to Combeferre, “Do you need me to stay, or…”

“No. it’s fine. I’m feeling a lot better, I think we’ll manage.” Combeferre replies. 

“I can help.” Courfeyrac pipes up, arms still clutching Enjolras to his own chest. 

Joly feels Combeferre’s forehead, “100.9 earlier today.” Enjolras supplies from where he’s quite content against Courfeyrac’s chest.

“Alright,” Joly agrees, clambering off the bed. “If you need anything though…”

“I’ll call.”

Joly leaves Combeferre with a list of instructions he already knows, but appreciates the back up and update of Bossuett’s health which sounds much the same as Combeferre’s currently.

As the door clicks shut Combeferre wonders how is going to care for both of his friends; Courfeyrac is still pretty sick and Enjolras can be a challenge at the best of times, and he, Combeferre, is still shaky on his feet. 

The points becomes moot within the next two hours as Joly reappears on the threshold, a pale Bossuett wrapped in a blanket at his side.

“I figured this was easier.” He explains handing Combeferre two bags and directing Bossuett to the sofa. 

And that is how, over the next few days the flat only seems to get fuller until the living room has been entirely colonised by amis and enormous mounds of bedding.


	3. It's Not Bloody TB

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Continuation of Chapter 2, in which the amis have colonised Enjolras' living room, much to his surprise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I sat down to write this chapter, i.e. Courfeyrac's chapter, and this happened instead. 
> 
> Unashamed fluff. I'm only sorry for the standard lack of editing and slight rush job, but...you know...
> 
> Thank you very much to everyone who commented! Makes my day every time! I do try to respond to them, so a thousand apologies if I missed you! It means alot that you take the time.
> 
> Enjoy!

Once Joly and the still sniffly Bossuet had set up camp in their living room, Jehan obviously felt the precendent had been set to visit, and once there, didn’t seem to leave. From there it was only a short step before Feuilly and Bahorel felt left out and braced their immune systems against the infestation in order to visit the rest of their friends. When a week rolled around and their usual meeting was cancelled as none of unholy trinity of Enjolras, Combeferre and Courfeyrac were able to leave the apartment, Grantaire came visiting the house of sick and felt perfectly at home settling between Feuilly and Joly and diving right into part way through The Two Towers as if he’d been there the entire time.

Thankfully, everyone seemed to be past the contagious stage of whatever ‘mutant hell virus’ (as Courfeyrac had taken to calling it) had taken down nearly half of Les Ami del’ABC by the time a small refugee camp of sleeping bags, spare duvets, blankets and pillows had been established in the living room, and no one else came down with it.

The sight of his living room entirely colonised by amis and bedding was something of a surprise to Enjolras, making him feel his own forehead and wonder if the fever was making him hallucinate. Apparently, he’d slept through the relocation of all of his friends, knocked out by illness, exhaustion and the drugs Combeferre forced on him, and no one had seen fit to tell him during the short intermissions he’d been lucid and trying not to cough up his own lungs. He didn’t mind. The sight of all his friends sprawled across sofas, armchairs and the floor was touching and he felt a warm ball of affection take up residence in his belly. Picking his way across the room to the kitchen counter was something of a challenge, trying as he was not to wake anyone (nor cough, lest the noise wake someone and bring down a scolding for being out of bed on his head). He’d woken relatively clear headed to find Courfeyrac had reclaimed the centre of the bed, spooning around Enjolras as Combeferre was curled around him. It was early; Enjolras had never been particularly good at sleeping through the night and after sleeping for almost 36 hours straight he was restless so taking the opportunity to stretch his legs he’d crept out of bed in search of water, and if he was quiet and lucky, a shower; he felt sweaty and quite disgusting. 

He managed the water and made it to the bathroom without waking anyone before the coughing returned, forcing him to grip the sink, white knuckled and blinking away the blackness encroaching on his vision. A glance in the mirror confirmed he looked as hideous as he felt. The shower felt wonderful, easing the ache in his muscles and joints, the steam calming the ever-present need to cough. He is weak and shaking by the end, from the exertion of standing and the heat doing nothing to improve his fever but he feels better for it.

When he opens the door which leads to Combeferre’s room, dimly aware Joly and Bossuet have decamped in his, he finds Combeferre sitting on the edge of his bed looking distinctly unimpressed. 

Enjolras starts and presses a hand to his chest. “’Ferre...” he breathes, leaning against the door frame for support. 

“You shouldn’t have locked the door. What if you’d fallen, or passed out?”

He hadn’t thought of that. “I...er...” 

“Here.” Combeferre holds out the clean pajamas he is holding. “I thought that might be where you’d gone.”

It dawns on Enjolras that he’s worried him, disappearing from his sick bed when yesterday he was probably unable to walk at all without help. He steps towards the bed, wobbly, to take the pajamas and is glad when Combeferre comes to meet him, to steady him, disapproving look melting from his features. “Sorry.” Enjolras mumbles, pulling on the bottoms as Combeferre turns his back.

Combeferre sighs as he settles Enjolras on the bed and helps him button the shirt. He smiles at Enjolras, some measure of fond exasperation in his expression. “Why can’t you just be like a normal person when you’re ill, instead of being obsessed with being clean and intent on escaping and worrying me.”

“I’m sorry.” Enjolras repeats, he is guilty and he knows it. “For worrying you. Although I hardly think one shower in what...two days, can be classed as obsession.”

Combeferre only raises an eyebrow as he tucks him in, so Enjolras considers himself chastised and meekly accepts the thermometer Combeferre is sliding under his tongue. He takes a seat next to Enjolras and pushes the still-wet, determinedly curling tendrils of hair back from his face. Enjolras feels a lecture looming.

“You’ve pushed your temperature back up.” Combeferre says finally, as he inspects the thermometer. He hands Enjolras two tablets, acetaminophen, he realises when astringent, bitterness hits the back of his tongue. He takes them without complaint, to appease Combeferre, but pulls a face at the taste and wonders if giving him the variety without sugar coating is some sort of bizarre Combeferrian punishment. Enjolras hates taking medication, of any sort, but has to admit he appreciates the relief they bring from his aching joints.

“How are you feeling?” Combeferre asks him, fishing a stethoscope from the drawers beside his bed and warming the bell between his hands. “Honesty, please.” He adds before Enjolras has time to speak. 

True enough, Enjolras had been about to lie, but Combeferre is giving him that strict look over the top of his glasses which is usually reserved for Courfeyrac at his most rambunctious. 

“Awful.” He says finally with a sigh. 

“Good boy. Was that so hard?” Combeferre teases as he presses the stethoscope to Enjolras’ chest.

Enjolras’ responding glare loses most of its power to the coughing fit which results from the exam.

Beside him, Courfeyrac doesn’t stir.

“He’s still quite poorly, isn’t he?” Enjolras asks, looking at him, the ever-present worry for his friends twinging a little.

“He was rather worried about you. He’s getting there; low grade fever and still snotty beyond all reason, which I can sympathise with...” Combeferre says, blowing his own nose. “ _Your_ chest, however, is pretty congested.”

Enjolras nods distractedly, caught up in another coughing fit. Combeferre produces a bottle of thick, viscous liquid from somewhere. As the coughing subsides Enjolras groans. “Do I have to? It makes me so drowsy.” 

“Yes. If you’re good and take your medicine, I might let you out of bed this afternoon. Relocate to the sofa.”

He lets Combeferre spoon medicine into his mouth without further complaint. “Speaking of the sofa, did you know the rest of our friends seem to have moved into the living room?” 

Combeferre smiles, amused. “Ah. Yes. Joly seemed to think bringing Bossuet here and looking after all of us would be easier. He’s also fairly convinced you have pneumonia so be prepared for the fussing. After that, the others just sort of ...appeared. I think they missed us. They’re worried about you...”

Enjolras ducks his head, blushing. “I’m alright.”

“You’re not. But you will be. Sooner if you behave and rest.”

“Yes sir.” He gives Combeferre a cheeky, if sloppy salute, and is rewarded with a kiss to the top of his head as Combeferre stands. “Are you hungry?”

Enjolras isn’t really, but nods and dutifully eats the porridge Combeferre brings for both of them. They eat in companionable silence, in the grey early morning light, two habitually early risers enjoying the peace before the apartment is filled with the companionable noise and warmth their late sleeping friends will bring when they wake.

As promised, Combeferre does let him relocate to the sofa that afternoon to join the latest film marathon they’ve embarked on. He’s endlessly grateful when instead of mothering him to death they have simply left a space on the sofa for him next to Courfeyrac. No one feels his forehead, bar Combeferre and Joly, no one tuts or winces when he coughs, no one comments about forgetting to sleep and eat and says it’s hardly surprising he was taken ill. That said, whenever he does cough there is always a hand offering him a glass of water and an unending supply of cold clothes for his forehead. It is a quiet, reserved sort of concern and love which entirely suits Enjolras so he is happy to share the sofa and pile of blankets with Courfeyrac, their legs tangled together like some sort of two headed, phlegm-ridden blanket monster, coughing and sniffling to his heart’s content without feeling self-conscious. 

Despite feeling like death he is even in good enough a mood to let Cosette and Eponine tut and coo over him when they arrive that evening, Marius in tow. Marius looks a little baffled at the pile of boy which entirely takes up the floor space between the sofa and the TV. He is even more perturbed by the notion that Enjolras, fearless and god-like leader, burning beacon of fury and social justice warrior that he is, can do something quite so mortal, so human, so normal as be ill and sniffly wrapped up on the sofa with Courfeyrac. He is appeased easily enough when Jehan springs up and pulls him into the midst of the floor pile and asking him what film they should put on next. He redeems his initial awkwardness by choosing The Italian Job, the original, and earning himself unending respect in all of their eyes.

So Enjolras lies there piled high with pillows and blankets, his friends arranged about him, coughing and feverish, like some sort of ‘nineteenth-century consumptive’. These words from Grantaire, who is closest of all of them, sitting with his back to the sofa and not minding the least bit when Enjolras’ fingers wind into his hair, nor when they tug it in response to his cheeky comment.

Enjolras soon discovers Combeferre wasn’t exaggerating about Joly’s concern over his junky chest and sits through his poking, prodding and repeated sessions with the thermometer as patiently as he can. 

Joly had done a marvellous job of restraining his hypochondria, which seemed to apply to his friends as much as to himself, fretting over ailments they might have as well as his own health, until Grantaire, quite off-hand, made this mention of tuberculosis and sent Joly into a spiral of renewed worry over Enjolras. Enjolras, wishing for Combeferre’s patience or Courfeyrac’s love of attention, admirably tolerated, with as much good grace as he could manage, the repeated exams and questions about night sweats, vaccinations and had he been near anyone who’d been coughing?

At this Enjolras looked in incredulity at him. “Coughing? Joly, of course I have...I’ve been nursing Combeferre and Courfeyrac for the past week. It’s not TB Joly, it was the flu, and now it’s a chest infection. You said so yourself. I’m not going to die. Please relax.” 

They all repeated this to him in variations to little avail. Enjolras remained feverish, coughing pitifully much to his own annoyance, and Joly remained stressed and anxious. Even Bossuet’s calming influence was unable to restore Joly’s usual, perpetual cheer. Eventually, Combeferre, who was entirely back to his old self now, convinced Enjolras to let them take him to a doctor. How, no one was ever sure, if there was one thing Enjolras hated more than medication, it was doctors. Whether it was more for Enjolras’ benefit, or Joly’s, was also questioned but nevertheless Enjolras returned to his sofa-cum-sickbed, leaning on Combeferre, looking severely displeased. 

Courfeyrac, much less snotty but still wrapped in a blanket from his usual position at the opposite end of the sofa to Enjolras, held out his arms to Enjolras as he threw a questioning look at Combeferre.

Pulling away from Combeferre, shaky on his own, Enjolras went to him, hiding as much as he could in Courfeyrac’s embrace. 

Combeferre sighed and explained. “They put him on antibiotics for the chest infection. It’s not pneumonia. It’s not bloody TB.” He adds with a sideways glance at Joly who had accompanied them.

No one else had entertained the notion that it had been and Joly had the good grace to blush. 

Combeferre took pity on him, patted his shoulder and said “It’s alright. I know you were just worried. But you can figure out how you are going to get him to take the drugs...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Humbly begs for comments! Please!
> 
> Actually, I'm a bit stuck on what exactly to do to Courfeyrac, he's already been ill, in last two chapters, so do you want more of that or get him injured?


	4. The Lesser Spotted Courfeyrac

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I planned to write Courfeyrac getting hurt, somehow. And comments seemed to be in the majority for that as well. Then this happened.  
> I blame MetreMaid entirely, who suggested this, which tbh I wasn't keen on but this seemed to jump, fully formed, into my head and my fingers did the rest. 
> 
> I'm so sorry, Courfeyrac. Because this is only Part 1, of what balooned into a mammoth chapter. And he's still going to get hurt in the one after that.

Courfeyrac groans as he wakes up, begrudging the dawn of a new day. Unlike Enjolras and Combeferre, Courfeyrac could appreciate the beauty of a lie in. Alas, that wasn’t an option today so he dragged himself upright, yawning and wondering at the soreness of his muscles; he hadn’t done anything particularly strenuous to warrant it in the past few days. He scratches the back of his neck as wanders sleepily to the bathroom to relieve himself.

It isn’t until he’s retrieved his toothbrush from inside the bathroom cabinet that he catches sight of himself in the mirror, and lets out a horrified scream.

Within seconds Combeferre is standing in the bathroom door, Enjolras half a step behind him, both gaping at him. Combeferre is shirtless, and Enjolras, in shirt and boxers, is holding his trousers in one hand, a cup of coffee in the other. 

“Oh...’Fey...” Combeferre breathes, stepping forward and taking his chin in his hand and tilting his head from side to side to see his face. His face which is covered in large, livid, red spots.

Behind him, Enjolras looks stunned, after a moment he gather himself and says “I’ll go call the office...” with a sigh, and disappears.

When he returns to Courfeyrac’s bedroom Combeferre has tucked him back into bed and is standing beside it, shaking down a thermometer with a few practiced flicks of his wrist. 

Enjolras still isn’t wearing any trousers as he climbs onto the bed to sit cross legged next to Courfeyrac. Courfeyrac looks extremely put out as Combeferre slides the thermometer under his tongue and rather upset. With his face covered in spots the whole effect makes him look somewhat like the pictures of bears on the front of Get Well Soon cards.

He throws Enjolras a grateful look when he takes his hand in support, thumb running gentle circles over the back of it. Combeferre takes the thermometer back and holds it up to his eye level. 

“Yep.” He says, “Chicken pox.”

Courfeyrac looks up at him fearfully. Enjolras makes a little sympathetic noise.

“It’s okay, ‘Fey. We’ll look after you. It’ll only be for a few weeks.”

“A few weeks!” Courfeyrac wails, voice breaking into a squeak, looking utterly mortified.

Combeferre takes a seat next to him and nods, taking his other hand. “About ten days. You’re still contagious until the last spot scabs over.”

Courfeyrac pales even further unsure whether he is more dismayed by ‘contagious’ or ‘scabs’. Courfeyrac has often been described as contagious, and always taken it as a complement. It seems the height of cruelty for the world to throw it back at him now.

“Scabs?” he whispers, as if volume will give the word power. 

Combeferre smiles kindly and explains. “The spots will crust over in a few days time. You’ll be a bit feverish, and quite itchy I’m afraid.”

Courfeyrac doesn’t look particularly mollified at the word crust. He absently rubs his belly, distinctly unhappy, and starts when Enjolras grabs his wrist, pulling his hand away from his belly.

“Don’t scratch.”

“There’s a risk they might scar if you do.” Combeferre adds.

“Scar!” Courfeyrac yelps and seriously considers histrionics. How this is fair of the world is entirely beyond him. 

“Don’t panic. They won’t. Just...try not to scratch. I’ll get you some creams and things which’ll help, alright?”

Courfeyrac nods miserably. “Will you let me take a look at the rest of you?”

Courfeyrac nods and lets Combeferre tugs his T shirt up to inspect his belly and chest. Courfeyrac isn’t sure his day can get any worse, but it does, when he sees the state of himself, covered in pox.

“I’m covered!” He wails. “I’m going to die. Horribly!”

“It’s actually not too bad. Only a few spots really.”

Courfeyrac looks disgusted, “Only a few...I’m hideous!” He hides his face in his hands, pulling his knees up under the blankets to rest his head on them, as Combeferre checks his back. “I’m ruined. Utterly ruined!” He wails, giving in to the histrionics.

“Now you’re being melodramatic.” He tucks Courfeyrac’s hair back behind his ears, trying to reassure him, offering comfort through touch. “Do you want me to stay at home? Only, we’re a bit short staffed and if I...”

Courfeyrac shakes his head, sniffing, but determined to man up. “No, it’s alright. I’ll be ok.”

“I called us both in sick.” Enjolras says quietly. “I’ll be here.”

Courfeyrac could have kissed him, but doesn’t because he’s hideous and unwilling to inflict himself on Enjolras. He settles for looking as grateful as he can manage and squeezing his hand.

Combeferre looks at his watch. “I need to hurry up then if I’m going in...are you sure you don’t want me to stay?”

“No, it’s ok. Honestly.” Courfeyrac says, clinging for dear life on to Enjolras’ hands with both of his own when Combeferre releases the hand he was holding, and stands.

“We’ll be ok, ‘Ferre.” Enjolras adds, squeezing Courfeyrac’s hands back.

Combeferre disappears in search of a shirt and shoes. Courfeyrac looks at Enjolras, glad he’s here, glad he’s staying. “I don’t want chicken pox, ‘jol.” He says very quietly. 

“Oh...sweetie...come here...” Enjolras reaches for him, pulls him into his arms and rocks him back and forth, murmuring things he can’t quite pick apart rapidly in his ear. Enjolras very rarely uses pet names, it is more Courfeyrac’s habit than his, but when he does it makes Courfeyrac smile, each one like the verbal equivalent of a special treat. He is crying, allowing himself this indulgence considering he’s having what seems to be the worst day of his life and it’s not even 9am yet. Enjolras doesn’t mind the growing patch of tears and, if Courfeyrac’s honest with himself, snot, on his shirt and just holds on to Courfeyrac, rocking and running one hand in smooth circles over his back, the other petting his curls. When Courfeyracs feels a bit better, he pulls away and wipes his eyes. 

“Thanks.” He says quietly. “Um...sorry...” he indicates the damp patch on Enjolras’ chest. 

Enjolras smiles, “No matter.” He passes Courfeyrac a few tissues from the box on the nightstand and unfolds himself from the bed to stand. “I’m just going to see ‘Ferre off, alright. I’ll be back in a minute. Is there anything you want for breakfast?”

“I’m not very hungry.” Courfeyrac mumbles, blowing his nose.

“You should eat something. I’ll make something nice, ok?” He kisses Courfeyrac’s hair as he goes to leave. 

“’jol?” Courfeyrac calls after him.

“Mmm?” Enjolras turns in the doorway, one hand on the frame.

“You should probably put some trousers on now. It’s getting a bit weird, to be honest.”

He can hear Enjolras laughing as he disappears down the hall.

 

 

“Try to keep his temperature below 101.5. And if you can, have a count of his spots to keep track of how fast he’s breaking out. I’ll pick up somethings on my way home, but ring me if you need anything – even if you’re just worrying, alright?” Combeferre is running a comb through his hair as he tries to gather the things he needs for work, eat toast and deliver instructions at the same time. 

“Will do. We’ll be ok. Try not to worry too much yourself.”

“The itching shouldn’t be too bad yet. But I’m worried about his fever. Get him to eat whatever you can, and fluids! Fluids are always a good idea.” He’s halfway out the door now, Enjolras laughing at him. 

“Yes, ‘Ferre. Fever, food and fluids. Got it.”

“Bye!” By the time he says this, he’s halfway down the stairs. 

 

 

Enjolras hasn’t put trousers on, the next time Courfeyrac sees him, but pyjama bottoms, which makes him smile; Courfeyrac hates being underdressed, so Enjolras has essentially lowered the dress code for the day just to make Courfeyrac feel better about it.

He’s also brought Courfeyrac breakfast on a tray, and the fact it’s pancakes goes no small way in cheering Courfeyrac up. He just wishes he was hungry.

Enjolras is watching him expectantly, so he pours a bit of syrup over them and takes a bite. 

“Are they ok?” Enjolras actually sounds nervous, and it makes Courfeyrac inexplicably fond. Enjolras is mostly all confidence, sheer charisma and charm when he’s standing in front of a crowd of people, stirring them up with his passionate rhetoric, and in those moments he glows, radiating a feeling of hope and light that everyone near can’t help but revel in. Courfeyrac adores him in those moments, is beyond proud of him and respects him more than almost anyone else knows. But it’s these moments, the moments when Enjolras is unsure of himself and awkward and hesitant that make Courfeyrac love him. So when he looks up, and catches the apprehensive look on Enjolras’ face (because Enjolras is very good at many things, and maybe not as good at cooking) Courfeyrac feels his heart swell with the special type of love he has for his friends, the special love for Combeferre and Enjolras and the special love reserved just for Enjolras and, despite feeling like death, summons up his very best smile for him. 

“It’s great.” He says, and he means it. “Really. Thank you.”

Enjolras face relaxes a bit into a soft half smile. “Just eat what you can manage.”

Courfeyrac does, though it is disappointingly little.

But Enjolras doesn’t mind. “You did great.” He says as he moves the tray off Courfeyrac’s lap. 

Courfeyrac rubs his forehead, wincing at the annoying throb there, eyes falling closed. His crying fit earlier hadn’t helped his head at all. He feels Enjolras cool fingers ghost over his and drops his hand so Enjolras can trace soft trails across his hot forehead. 

“Headache?”

Courfeyrac nods. If there’s one thing Enjolras knows, it’s headaches.

“You can have paracetamol, if you like. Bring your temperature down too.”

“Please.”

He takes the pills from Enjolras, along with a few gulps of water, and sniffles miserably. “I’m pathetic, aren’t I?”

Enjolras huffs soft laughter. “No, ‘Fey. You’re not. You’re poorly, and that’s rubbish. That’s all.” He presses his palm to Courfeyrac’s forehead, illiciting a sigh from Courfeyrac; his hands are wonderfully cool. “Lie back down. You’ll feel better if you sleep, if you can.”

Courfeyrac scrunches down and turns his head on the pillow, watching Enjolras stretch out beside him, head propped on one hand, the other resuming soft strokes across Courfeyrac’s forehead. He does eventually fall asleep, vaguely aware that Enjolras’ hand still after a while but he doesn’t leave. It’s another hour before he does finally move, and Courfeyrac barely stirs.

 

Enjolras isn’t surprised to find his phone lighting up with Combeferre’s name at lunch time.

“Hey ‘Ferre.”

_“How is he?” ___

“Still a bit upset. Feverish. Sleepy. Cranky. Managed to feed him. About 30 on the spot count.” Enjolras replies, tucking the phone against his shoulder as he carries on with the various housekeeping jobs which never seem to get done. 

__“Have you taken his temperature?” ____

__“Yes, ‘Ferre. Still 101.3.” Enjolras upends the laundry basket onto the kitchen floor._ _

__“That’s okay. As long it doesn’t spike any higher.” ____

__Enjolras nods, forgetting Combeferre can’t see him, as he debates whether a shirt is light or dark load. He’s not sure whose it even is._ _

___“I’ve called the others, to let them know.” ___Combeferre continues. _“Gavroche broke out in spots a few days ago. Probably where Courfeyrac picked it up from. I didn’t realise Courfeyrac never had it.” ___Combeferre knows he has, he remembers much to his regret. He’s seen Enjolras’ medical records and knows he has, thankfully so young that he can’t remember. They are, hopefully, safe._ _

____“And the others, has everyone else had it?” He asks, elbow deep in the washing machine as he shoves the light load in first._ _ _ _

_____“Feilly, yes, Bahorel, yes, Jehan thinks so, Grantaire didn’t answer but I’ve text him. Joly, yes, Bossuet yes, but Joly is worried he’ll be unlucky enough to get it twice. Marius hasn’t.” ____ _ _ _

_____“Of course Marius hasn’t.”_ _ _ _ _

______“Poor Courfeyrac. Everyone sent their love and best wishes, will you tell him?” ____ _ _ _ _

______“Of course.” The washing machine whirs to life._ _ _ _ _ _

_______“They all want to visit, well, apart from Marius. But I said I’d see if he’s up to it first, you know how he can be.” ____ _ _ _ _ _

_______Enjolras nods again, contemplating the washing up in the sink. “Mmm.” He adds after a minute._ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“So you’re both ok?” ____ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“Yes. I’m being very domestic and Courf is currently sleeping.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_________“Good. Probably for the best. Domestic, you?” ____ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_________“Yes, me. I’ll make a wonderful house wife someday I’m sure.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_________Combeferre snorts down the phone. _“Do you need anything bringing home, then, dear?” _____ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“I don’t think so. Oh...milk...and maybe some squash or something. Plain water is boring, apparently.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________“Will do. I’ll see you in a few hours. Bye.” ____ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________“Bye.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________Enjolras hangs up, tossing his phone onto the sofa and heading back to Courfeyrac’s room to see if he’s still sleeping._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________He is, but apparently not deeply, waking as Enjolras steps into the room._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________“Hey.” He says and presses his hand to Courfeyrac’s forehead. He can’t really tell if it’s any different to the last time he tried, it’s more Combeferre’s forte than his. “’Ferre rang.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________“Yeah? Thought he might. He worries.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________“Mmm. Gavroche has chicken pox too. Probably how you caught it.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________Courfeyrac nods in agreement. “Poor kid.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________“He’ll probably have an easier time of it than you. He’s young.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________“Were you?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________“When I had chicken pox? Yes. I don’t remember it all. I was a baby, I think.” He replies sitting down on the bed next to Courfefyrac._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________Courfeyrac rests his head against his shoulder. “This is so unfair.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________“I know, sweetie. I know.” There is it again, another little verbal treat. Enjolras wraps his arm around Courfeyrac’s shoulder. “When was the last time you saw Marius?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________“Err...probably Saturday? A few days ago, at least.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________“Oh dear.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________“What?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________“Marius has never had this, either. You were probably already catching when you last saw him.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________“Shit.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________“Mmm. Exactly.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________They sit companionably leaning against the headboard for a while longer, Courfeyrac curled into Enjolras, fingers wrapped in the soft cotton of his T shirt and Enjolras fingers tapping some internal beat on Courfeyrac’s knee. Enjolras is a man of action and motion, as is Courfeyrac usually, both rarely still, so these quiet moments are as precious as they are rare and inevitably it doesn’t last long before Enjolras suddenly moves, claps Courfeyrac on the knee and says “Do you want to move to the sofa for a bit?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________But Courfeyrac doesn’t mind Enjolras’ inability to sit still for now, and nods, glad of the change of scene._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________Fever has made him weaker and shakier than he expected so he leans on Enjolras on route to the sofa and is relieved to settle himself on it and let Enjolras dart about, plying him with pillows and blankets until he’s declared sufficiently swaddled. Enjolras plops down next to him, remote controls in one hand and thermometer in the other._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________“Here.” He says, shaking it and checking the mercury like Combeferre has showed him, before passing it to Courfeyrac. Obediently, Courfeyrac slips it under his tongue. “Lest the wrath of Combeferre be brought down upon us.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________Combeferre possibly has the least wrath of anyone Courfeyrac has ever met, but the look of disappointment on his face when he’s been let down or disregarded is worse in many ways that even Enjolras in one of his most magnificent tempers._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________Enjolras frowns when he takes the thermometer from Courfeyrac, pulling his lower lip between his teeth as he thinks._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________“It’s higher?” Courfeyrac asks._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________“Mmm. 101.8. Does half a degree count as spiking?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________“I don’t think so. It’s not so high...is it?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________“No...I suppose not...” Enjolras says slowly, debating calling Combeferre. But at the end of the day, what can he do from the hospital? “It’s been four hours, you can have more paracetamol. And then we’ll check again?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________Courfeyrac grumbles as he moves to get up again; he’d just gotten comfy, leaning against Enjolras._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________“Sorry. Be right back.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________Courfeyrac takes the paracetamol Enjolras offers him, downing half of the glass of water. Enjolras still looks worried, standing over him, so Courfeyrac takes his hand and tugs._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________“Come back down here. I need a hug.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________Enjolras smiles. “Alright. One second.” And he’s gone again. “Here...lie down.” Courfeyrac lies down with his head in Enjolras’ lap and feels something cold press against his forehead. “Does this help?” He nods; between the cold cloth and the paracetamol his headache is almost gone._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________Enjolras flicks through the TV menu until he finds the DVD player and presses play. Courfeyrac has to smile when he hears the soundtrack start. “ER?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________“I know you love it.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________“Don’t pretend that you don’t.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________“Love is a strong word.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________Courfeyrac snorts, and turns his head to watch. This is something only he and Enjolras do; Combeferre and Joly pick holes in the medicine of the program, Jehan isn’t great with blood and neither is Marius, Grantaire cannot stand it and Bossuet doesn’t really care either way but generally, if Joly dislikes it, Bossuet dislikes it._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________Enjolras manages to sit still through the first episode before he starts to fidget. He checks Courfeyrac’s temperature again, and both of them are relieved to find it’s dropped. With a sigh, Courfeyrac sits up to let Enjolras up and go off and do something for ten minutes. But when he comes back he climbs right onto the sofa with him, lying on his back so Courfeyrac can lie on his chest. Courfeyrac smiles when he feels Enjolras’ breathing slow, and sneaks a glance up to find his eyes closed. It’s strange watching Enjolras sleep because it is strange to see him so still. He has a tendency to fall asleep if he sits, or lies, still for long enough because he doesn’t sleep nearly enough at night. Courfeyrac is content to lie there, ear pressed to his friend’s chest listening to him breathe, and watch the gore on screen, wondering if Combeferre and Joly’s jobs are anything like this._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________Combeferre finds them like this when he gets home, still wearing scrubs. Courfeyrac is sleeping with his spotted face pressed into Enjolras’ chest and Enjolras has one arm looped over Courfeyrac protectively, the other half-abandoned hanging off the sofa, fingertips just brushing the remote control on the floor where it has obviously dropped from sleep slackened fingers. The ER intro is looping on the DVD player._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________Slipping the bags in his hands to the floor he slides his phone out of his pocket and brings up the camera app. He knows he’s probably risking his life photographing them like this, Courfeyrac covered in spots and Enjolras all guards down, cuddled together and fast asleep. But it’s beyond adorable and he can’t resist._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________Despite being as gentle as he can, Enjolras, ever the light sleeper, wakes up when Combeferre takes his arm and folds it onto his stomach; he’s going to end up with a sore elbow like that. He smiles sleepily when he sees Combeferre and turns his head from where his nose is half buried in Courfeyrac’s curls to look at him._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________“How is the bespotted one?” Combeferre whispers._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________“Cuddly. But not too bad. We had a little moment when his temperature shot up half a degree, but it came back down again pretty quickly.” Enjolras says softly, trying not to move and wake Courfeyrac._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________“I have supplies.” Combeferre says indicating the bags._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________“I’d move but...”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________“Stay. I need tea. Do you want tea?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________“Mmm. Please.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________When Combeferre returns, having made tea, they are just as he’d left them but Enjolras has, much to the relief of Combeferre’s nerves, switched the television off._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________“There’s no way you’re going to be able to drink this without waking him up.” Combeferre says, assessing them. “Isn’t your arm asleep?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________“I’m alright for the minute. I’ll drink it later.” He smiles as he looks down at Courfeyrac, and presses his lips to the top of his head._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________“I swapped my shift tomorrow, so I can stay with him, but I’m still on call tomorrow night; I couldn’t swap that.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________“Oh. That’s good. I need to go in and sort out mine and Courfeyrac’s cases – I can probably work from home a lot of next week.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________“I’m on nights, so between us, pox watch is covered. And failing that, there’s always the others.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________“How’s Gavroche?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________“From what Eponine said he’s already over it, and barely noticed he was even ill.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________“Poor ‘Fey. I’m not surprised Marius never got it; I think he barely saw children his own age growing up. But ‘Fey?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________Combeferre hums in agreement. “I’m quite sure he would have been surrounded by hordes of adoring friends infecting him with everything going.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________Enjolras is quiet for a moment before craning his neck to meet Combeferre’s eye and say, worry colouring his voice, “He is going to be alright, isn’t he? I mean, they say it’s worse for adults...”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________“He’ll be fine. I promise. There is a small risk of pneumonia, or infection among other things, but we’ll keep a close eye on him. Don’t worry.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________Enjolras tips his head in a nod and gives Combeferre a smile. “Was work busy?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________“Something like controlled chaos.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________“Isn’t it always?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________“Pretty much.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________“What do you want for dinner?” Enjolras asks._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________“You mean it isn’t ready and on the table? Some housewife you are.” Combeferre replies, chuckling to himself._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________Enjolras raises an eyebrow and indicates with his free hand to Courfeyrac, half-lying on top of him. “Do you see the armful of sleepy and pox-ridden Courfeyrac?”  
“Well then, you’ll be pleased to know I’ve already thought about this and along with milk, squash, a variety of lotions and medicines and something to cheer Courfeyrac up, I brought frozen pizzas for dinner.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________“You’re a wonderful husband.” Enjolras comments lightly. “Thank you.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________“You know, this might be the longest I’ve ever seen you this still for. How long have you been like this?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________“Probably three hours. I’m about done. My back is killing me from lying in the same position. And now my arm has gone to sleep. But it seems such a shame to wake him.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________“It is. But I need to check him over, slather him in lotion and feed him at some point tonight so...” Combeferre gets to his feet and bends over the two of them, one hand giving Courfeyrac’s shoulder a gentle squeeze._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________Courfeyrac blinks, and shifts against Enjolras in a little stretch. “Mmm. ‘Ferre. Glad you’re home.” He mumbles sleepily into Enjolras chest, throwing out a hand to grab Combeferre’s neck and tug him down. Combeferre, caught off guard and off balance, tumbles on top of them, Courfeyrac’s surprisingly strong grip keeping him from then falling to floor. Enjolras lets out a small ‘oof’ as all the air is forced out of him._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________“’Fey? Not that this isn’t nice, and I’m pleased to see you too...but I think we’re crushing Enjolras.” Combeferre says, face somewhat squashed into Courfeyrac’s chest._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________Courfeyrac hums, content to be the centre of this strange dogpile. “He’s fine.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________Combeferre can feel Enjolras laughing, underneath both of them, as he squirms trying to extract himself._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________Courfeyrac sighs dramatically, and reluctantly releases his grip on Combeferre so he can roll to the floor, and then sits up himself._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________Enjolras sits up too, looking much ruffled and a bit squashed around the edges and says dryly, “I told you he was cuddly.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________“It’s Courfeyrac, when is he not cuddly.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________“I’m right here you know. It’s rude to talk about someone in the third person if they’re right there, you know.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________Combeferre laughs and kneels in front of him, looking him up and down. “You’re more cheerful than you were this morning. I take it Enjolras has been a good nursemaid?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________“Mmmhmm.” Courfeyrac nods into Combeferre’s hand as he feels his forehead. “He made pancakes for breakfast. I love pancakes. And he cuddled. Even though he hates cuddling.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________“I do not hate cuddling. I just...” Enjolras trails off, not entirely sure why he’s defending this._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________“Alright, you fidget then. He cuddled and tried very hard not to fidget.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________“I think this afternoon might have been a new record on the not fidgeting front.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________Courfeyrac nods solemnly in agreement._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________“Now who’s speaking about who in the third person?” Enjolras asks, turning to look at Courfeyrac._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________Courfeyrac puts a hand on his knee to squeeze it affectionately. “Thank you, ‘Jol.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________“Welcome.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________Combeferre stands, pulling Enjolras, who is stiff from the sofa, to his feet to. “You’re a little warmer than I’d like, but I’ll put that down to the cuddling. Are you itchy?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________Courfeyrac shrugs and abruptly stops absently scratching his thigh. “A bit.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________“I got you some calamine lotion to help with that, if you want to try that?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________Courfeyrac nods, trying very not to now scratch his chest. “I’ll try anything, if it’ll help.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________“Good. Enjolras, where’s the thermometer?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________Enjolras finishes stretching out the kinks in his back and shoulder and leans over to pick it up from the coffee table where he’d left it._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________“I’ll leave you two to it. Those pizzas aren’t going to put themselves in the oven.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________“Pizza?” Courfeyrac cocks his head._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________“For dinner. Are you hungry?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________“Not particularly. But I like pizza.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________“I know.” Combeferre smiles, combing hair back from Courfeyrac’s flushed face to see the spots better. “Any other symptoms?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________“My head aches. But it goes if I take tablets. And my throat’s sore.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________Combeferre nods. “You can have more paracetamol in a minute. And some more medicine Joly prescribed for you. Open wide and say ah for me?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________Courfeyrac obeys as Combeferre shines his pen light into his mouth. “A little bit inflamed, but no swollen glands. So that’s good. Let’s take a look at the rest of you then, and get you covered in calamine.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________Courfeyrac peels off his T shirt so Combeferre can see the state of his torso. He doesn’t look, studying the bottle Combferre hands him instead._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________Combeferre feels better when he sees Courfeyrac’s chest and belly. Less spots than he was expecting and if Enjolras was right earlier, he hadn’t broken out in many new ones since lunch time._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________“It’s pink.” Courfeyrac says, looking at the lotion sceptically. “I’m not sure I suit pink.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________“It’ll dry white, if that’s any reassurance.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________“Not really. Let’s get this over with.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________Compared to Enjolras, who is a terrible fidget and so ticklish it’s beyond funny and makes stitching him up or treating him a nightmare, Courfeyrac is as good as gold and holds as still as he can as Combeferre patiently dabs calamine lotion onto each spot on his back. Enjolras returns with more paracetamol halfway through, for which Courfeyrac is grateful, and drops to his knees in front of Courfeyrac and starts on the spots on his chest and belly. Courfeyrac keeps his eyes closed throughout the whole ordeal, until he feels soft cloth brush his shoulders and one of them slip his arms into a clean pyjama top. Enjolras does the buttons up for him while Combeferre tips his head to face him and dabs cream onto his face. This close to Courfeyrac can see the flecks of gold in Combeferre’s brown eyes and the tiny frown lines which appear and disappear with each dab as he concentrates._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________“There. All done. Better?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________Courfeyrac nods, because it is and yawns, because he’s tired again. Combeferre smiles and holds up the thermometer, “Temperature, tea and then bed?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________Courfeyrac nods again, and leans into Combeferre as he sits next to him, one armed wrapped around his waist and the other hand slipping the thermometer under his tongue again._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________He only manages a few slices of pizza, and even then only because Combeferre has gotten his favourite. He is relieved when he’s put to bed, half an hour later, despite having slept much of the day, and happy to have both of them do it, both lying down either side of him until he falls asleep. He loves being in the middle._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please, please comment if you enjoyed (or not, as the case maybe!). 
> 
> This has a slightly different format to how I usually write, so I hope it worked and it was rather dialogue heavy I think. I was a little unsure about posting it anyway, but you know...I did.
> 
> As ever, prompts are welcome to. Look what happened after the last one.


	5. The Greater Spotted Courfeyrac

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Combeferre could well be magic.

Chapter 5: The Greater Spotted Courfeyrac

Combeferre finds a cup of rapidly cooling tea on his nightstand when he wakes, and smiles thinking of Enjolras creeping to leave it for him before he left for work this morning. Enjolras drinks tea, but not like a fiend like Combeferre does, and so ends being offered a cup much more often than he makes it. So he often leaves little tea presents for Combeferre in the morning, a sort of tea reciprocation and thank you as well as an understanding that Combeferre doesn’t really function before tea. It’s a softer side to Enjolras that people who don’t know him well often overlook. So he drinks it, although it is lukewarm, enjoys it and spends the morning creeping around the flat determined to let Courfeyrac to sleep as long as he can.

When Courfeyrac does wake he is not especially happy about it. He is itchy and cranky when Combeferre inspects his rash and pouts as his temperature is taken.

“You are out of sorts today, ‘Fey.” Combeferre says mildly, sliding the thermometer out of Courfeyrac’s mouth and holding it up to the light. “Ah...that might be why. You’re running quite the temperature.”

“I don’t like having the chicken pox, ‘Ferre.” He says sniffling.

“No one does, my dear. Is your throat still bothering you?” Combeferre brushes hair back from his face, mindful of the spots, before checking his glands. “Still up, unfortunately.” Courfeyrac nods into his hands, cupped as they are around his face.

“Alright. Let me see your belly.”

Courfeyrac fidgets around so he can push the blankets down and pull his shirt up. Once again, he doesn’t look down at himself as Combeferre looks him over. “A few new ones, but still nothing too bad.”

Courfeyrac looks unconvinced, pulling his top back down hastily and folding his arms. “I itch.”

“I know,” Combeferre says, cupping Courfeyrac’s face with one hand again. “Well, you have my undivided attention all day, so let’s see if we can’t make you feel a little bit better, shall we?” He smiles so kindly, tucking hair behind Courfeyrac’s ears, it dissolves a little of his bad humour but he just feel so sorry for himself he can’t help but start to cry. Combeferre pulls Courfeyrac into his arms as tears slide over his pock-marked cheeks, rocking him as he has a quiet little cry. He murmurs “Cry as much as you need to, it’s just the fever. Don’t worry. It’s alright. I’ve got you.” Into Courfeyrac’s ear and just holds him until he pulls away. 

“Better?” Combeferre asks, brushing the last few tears away with the back of his index finger.

Courfeyrac nods, offering him a watery sort of smile and a little apology. 

Combeferre is having none of it. “Don’t be silly. Now, let’s get you covered in calamine, and find something to entertain us, eh?”

So Courfeyrac lets him dab lotion over the spots, quietly watching Combeferre work with meticulous care over him. He wears the same look of concentration he did the night before, little frown lines smoothing and creasing as his clever mind ticks over. Courfeyrac has watched and loved that same expression as Combeferre bends over Enjolras, stitching up a horrendous gash on his belly from catching himself on a shard of broken glass during a riot they’d been caught in. Courfeyrac had held his hands as Enjolras tried, and failed, to hold still. Combeferre hadn’t uttered a word of complaint, his clever fingers touching Enjolras only when needed to limit the touch his ticklish skin couldn’t help but react to. In the end, it was Enjolras who’d asked Courfeyrac and Bahorel to hold him down so Combeferre could finish the job. It was the same expression he applied to Joly as he asked Combeferre to inspect his tongue, Combeferre, ever the gentleman, indulges him and reassures him, gives him the full benefit of his attention. It’s the expression he wears when deciphering Jehan’s truly awful handwriting. The expression of reading philosophy books until late in the night, the expression of quiet but intense political debates stretching even later into the night and the expression of watching and noticing everything around him, filing it away in his clever mind. It is the expression of Combeferre’s incomparable intelligence and kind soul and Courfeyrac loves it dearly.

He is inexpressibly glad Combeferre is with him today. He loves Enjolras dearly and with all his heart, but he just doesn’t understand illness. He’s rarely ill himself, and when he is he’s a living nightmare to deal with. In comparison to now, Courfeyrac hadn’t felt too bad yesterday and tried really hard to be a good patient for Enjolras because anything else would have frightened and worried him. 

Combeferre on the other hand, was made for this. He instinctively understands what an ill Courfeyrac wants and needs, and is gentle but firm about it. He doesn’t panic when Courfeyrac refuses food, but uses his Combeferrian magic to cajole him into eating something; doesn’t panic when he start to run a high temperature, just quietly uses his magic to make it feel not quite so bad; doesn’t fret when Courfeyrac is out of sorts and entirely not himself, just quietly carries on until Courfeyrac mood magically disappears. Courfeyrac is 78% sure that Combeferre has magic. The other 22% is belief in his pure patience, patience to deal with a needy Courfeyrac and patience to tolerate even Enjolras’ worst moods and temper them with a kind word and cool, calm logic. Courfeyrac knows he is the centre of the little organisation they head, but Combeferre is the glue which holds the three of them together. Without Combeferre, Enjolras and Courfeyrac would implode like twin stars, dependant on the existence of each other but liable to destruct without gravity to stabilise them. It is at once a comfort and infinite source of worry to know that he, Courfeyrac, could not exist without either of them.

Courfeyrac is so far lost in his own introspection of Combeferre’s wonderful character that he hasn’t realised he’s staring at him. Combeferre, concerned at this sudden quietness and the slightly soppy gaze focused on him, he feels Courfeyrac’s forehead again wondering if his fever has suddenly spiked. Courfeyrac snaps back to himself at the touch, and smiles at Combeferre fondly. 

“Sofa?” he asks, happy enough that Courfeyrac isn’t, in fact, delirious.

“Sofa.” Courfeyrac confirms, swinging his legs out of bed. He is even shakier than he was yesterday, and has to cling to Combeferre for dear life as they make their way there, the other man blaming this weakness too on the fever.

Combeferre deposits him on the sofa, handing Courfeyrac every controller to every piece of tech in the room so he can choose how to entertain himself. He does, however, remove the ER DVD from the player because even Combeferre, kind as he is, isn’t going to spend the day watching a program he despises. It isn’t just the medical inaccuracies; it reminds him a little too much of his own job, but is, at the same time, so utterly different, so utterly wrong, that it infuriates him. He does, for some reason, find House acceptable and always, always, guesses the outcome before the characters do. Courfeyrac doesn’t choose anything medical based, he is far from in the mood for it considering how he himself has to have his temperature taken every hour. Instead, he indulges his inner child, which today feels very much like an outer child too, and asks Combeferre to put something Disney-based on. 

Combeferre smiles at this, as if he was expecting it (knowing Combeferre, and Combeferre knowing Courfeyrac as well as he does, he probably was) and complies with Pirates of the Caribbean, but then hurries of to do something or other, returning with an armful of supplies as Captain Jack steps off his sinking ship onto the pier. 

Another of Courfeyrac’s favourite things about Combeferre is his ability to sit still. This doesn’t sounds much like a skill, but it is when the other option is Enjolras in whom stillness indicates the furious and intricate operation of a very dangerous mind at work. Or unconsciousness, because even in sleep Enjolras fidgets. Courfeyrac can’t really hold this against Enjolras, because he understands, he too if often so full of ideas, inspiration and activity that it feels as if he will burst if he doesn’t move. But right now, movement equals itching, and Courfeyrac does not feel at all well and wants to stay very, very still. Combeferre is ideal. Combeferre is also much better at cuddling, rivalled only by Jehan who is a little too fragile and bony for Courfeyrac’s liking. Combeferre is fit and lean, as they all have to be, but somehow so much softer than Enjolras who is all hard angles and stiff tension unless Courfeyrac has lulled him into a sense of security first. So Courfeyrac cuddles into Combeferre’s side, warm and content under his arm watching Pirates until he falls asleep and almost forgets about the itching.

He wakes up sticky, sweaty and uncomfortable and unbearably itchy, still pressed to Combeferre’s side. He tries not to scratch, he really does, because Combeferre is wearing his worried expression as he feels Courfeyrac’s forehead with a frown and slips the thermometer under his tongue. But he can’t help it, and has to hold onto Combeferre’s free hand so he only has to try to control one of them.

“’Ferre, it’s really bad...I can’t...please...” Courfeyrac squirms, fighting the impulse to tear his own skin off.

“I know, sweetie, I know. I’m sorry. Your temperature’s higher too and you’re breaking out again. Shh...it’s alright, hold on.” Combeferre is murmuring a continuous stream of nothings and epithets to calm Courfeyrac down as he strips him down to his boxers so his clothes don’t irritate the rash further. Combeferre takes his chin in one hand and says “I want to try something, I’ll be right back, alright. I won’t be a minute.”

“No! ‘Ferre...please, I can’t...please.” He hates himself in that moment. He knows he clings when he’s ill, or hurt, and usually it doesn’t bother him, he’s entitiled to attention, he’s hurt after all but his desperation, the lack of control he has over this, this terror of being alone, disgusts him.

“I will be less than a minute. I swear.”

Courferyac nods jerkily, holding Combeferre’s gaze until he’s gone and it’s all he can do to keep still, but he can’t and for a brief, desperate minute his nails tear into the bare skin of his chest and he’s crying again because there is so much and he only has two hands and not enough nails and oh god...and suddenly, Combeferre is there, hands like iron around his wrists and eyes holding his, steady, unwavering.

“You can’t.” He says softly. “You can’t. I know it’s bad but you can’t. You can’t scratch it.”

Courfeyrac’s breath is coming is uneven, irregular gulps as he tries to calm down, but Combeferre doesn’t let go, doesn’t look away , doesn’t stop talking to him. “It’s just the fever. You’re fine. It’s fine. I’m here. I have you. Hold on to me. Focus on me. Breathe. Breathe. In. Out. In. Out. Good boy, you’re doing brilliantly. You’re so good. You’re being so brave. Well done, sweetie, well done. That’s it.”

Eventually, his breathing evens out and the horrible, terrifying panic melts away leaving just him and Combeferre clinging to each other. Combeferre’s hand is on his forehead again, and then he’s in Combeferre’s arms, being carried towards the bathroom.

Combeferre deposits him on the toilet seat and turns the taps on the bath to stop it from overflowing. Combeferre turns to him, eyebrows raised in curious expectation.

“So...this is a bit of an experiment. Are you with me?”

“I’ll try anything once.” He turns to look at the bath, wiping his eyes and trying to man the fuck up. “What’s that floating in it?”

“Porridge.”

“Porridge?”

“Porridge.”

Courfeyrac shrugs because, what the hell, and squirms out of his boxers without standing because his legs feel too much like jelly to stand and at this point Combeferre has seen him at his absolute worst and at the end of the day Courfeyrac has never been too bothered about nudity.  
Combeferre, apparently as at home with nudity as Courfeyrac, simply picks him up again and lowers him into the water. Courfeyrac sighs and shudders a little as he sinks underneath the water, because it’s wonderful and cool, and by god, it actually helps. The itch begins to fade. Now Courfeyrac is convinced Combeferre has magical powers.

“Oh.” He says. “Oh. Oh. Oh.” Because coherency is something for people who don’t have the bloody chicken pox.

Combeferre laughs softly, the noise low in the back of his throat, and threads his fingers through Courfeyrac’s hair as he perches on the edge of the tub.

“Good?”

“I think you’re magic.”

Combeferre laughs again, but clearly thinks Courfeyrac’s delirious, either that or driven mad from the pox, as moments later he feels the thermometer slide between his lips again.

“Ah. It worked, your temperature’s dropping.” He says as he removes it.

Courfeyrac makes a noise that doesn’t mean anything in particular and sink lowers under the water until only his nose is above it to provide him with air.

Combeferre is laughing at him again, but Courfeyrac doesn’t care, he like making Combeferre laugh; the reason why generally doesn’t matter to him. He spends a lot of his time trying to make Combeferre and Enjolras laugh. He feels Combeferre’s hands dip into the water, and soft cloth ghost over his skin. He lets himself be manhandled so Combeferre can wash his back, only opening his eyes when he feels Combeferre’s arms slip underneath his knees and shoulders again and he holds onto Combeferre’s neck when he lifts him, unwilling to be a complete burden. He’s placed gently into bed, dressed in clean pyjamas and tucked in. He has to have his temperature taken again, but he is sanguine and calm and happy to comply with whatever Combeferre, the magician, asks of him. 

“101.2. Much better.”

Courfeyrac nods sleepy in agreement. He feels much better now.

“Before you sleep, I need to get food into you. What would you like?”

“I’m not hungry.” Courfeyrac mumbles.

“I know. But you need to eat. Now, what sounds good?”

Courfeyrac sighs, but he has made a promise to himself to be the best patient possible for Combeferre (god knows Enjolras has given them all enough trouble to last anyone a life time), so he thinks. 

“Porridge?” He says, after a minute. 

“Porridge?”

“Porridge.” He confirms, half asleep. “Porridge is my friend today.”

It’s a strange choice, but Combeferre is no stranger to strangeness and goes off to make porridge without further question.

Courfeyrac is still sleepy when he returns, but is happy to be fed most of a bowl of porridge and some slices of pear before he drifts into sleep entirely. He gets a kiss on the forehead before he’s entirely gone.

 

The next time he wakes it is to find Combeferre filing his nails. 

“What are you doing?” He asks, groggy. 

“Filing your nails. Keep you from scratching. How are you feeling?”

Courfeyrac stretches and hmms. “Much better, thank you.”

Combeferre feels his forehead and hums approvingly. “Are you up to finishing Pirates?”

“Can I just stay here?”

“Of course. Are you sure you’re feeling better? You’re awfully white?”

“I am, but worn out. Sit with me for awhile?”

“Alright. Are you sure I can’t get you anything?”

Courfeyrac shakes his head, and pats the bed beside him. 

“Hold on then.” Combeferre disappears, returning within minutes with a book. He makes Courfeyrac drink a glass of water before settling back against the headboard, book in hand. Courfeyrac shuffles down in the bed and twists so he can rest his head on Combeferre’s thigh. 

Combeferre’s free hand finds his hair again and Courfeyrac feels him take a breath, as if about to speak, release it, and draw another.  
“’Fey, I know you said no when Enjolras asked yesterday, but some of the others rang a little while ago to ask if they can come see you?”

Courfeyrac rolls onto his back to look up pleadingly at Combeferre. “I can’t...I’m sorry. I just...” 

Combeferre nods and rests his hand on Courfeyrac’s forehead, smoothing his hair back. “It’s alright. I’ll say you’re not up to it. They’re just worried.” Courfeyrac knows this and nods into his leg, drawing in the particular comfort that only Combeferre can offer.

 

 

When the doorbell goes Combeferre starts. Partly because they aren’t expecting anyone or anything, and the only people who might call around are their friends all of whom have a key. But when he swings the door open it is to find Jehan and Grantaire standing in it, both their faces covered in bright red spots.

“Is that...” He looks over his glasss, peering, entirely baffled, at Jehan’s face. “...felt tip?”

Jehan nods, grinning. He’s holding an enormous bunch of flowers.

“We thought Courfeyrac might be feeling a bit self conscious.” Grantaire says.

Jehan’s smile fades and he looks intensely worried. “But if doesn’t want to see us...”

Combeferre rubs a hand over his face, under his glasses, hiding his smile. “No, no. Come in. I’ll convince him.”

“He is alright, isn’t he?” Grantaire is frowning in concern, expression a far cry from his usual scepticism or sarcastic laughter. 

“He isn’t well, and today hasn’t been the best day, but yes, he’s as alright as he can be, considering.” He moves automatically to the kitchen to flick the kettle on. “But he could use cheering up. Hold on, I’ll see if he’s awake.”

Courfeyrac is just climbing back into his bed when Combeferre appears in his bedroom door, having clearly visited the bathroom. His colour is a little better, not as starkly white, but he still looks tired and not at all himself. 

“’Fey?”

“Hmm?” Courfeyrac replies, beating his fist into his pillow to fluff it up. 

“Jehan and Grantaire are here. They’ve come to cheer you up...”

“Oh...’Ferre. Please, I don’t want to see anyone...please.” he abruptly stops beating his pillow to turn wide eyes to Combeferre.

Combeferre comes over to the bed and takes Courfeyrac’s hands. “I think you’ll like this. Trust me? But I’ll send them away if you want me to.”

“Courfeyrac? Can we come in?” A voice floats in from the corridor. Jehan’s, closely followed by Grantaire’s as they talk over each other.

“We have chocolate!”

“And bad horror films!”

“And our lovely company!”

Courfeyrac has to smile. After a beat he nods, biting his lip and looking imploring at Combeferre. “Alright, alright. But stay with me?”

Combeferre nods “’ Course I will.” He smoothes the bed covers over Courfeyrac’s legs and runs his fingers through his curls quickly, before opening the door. “Come on then.” He says to the other two.

They are both uncharacteristically shy as they shuffle in side by side, looking painfully sympathetic and concerned.

Courfeyrac stares, open mouthed, at them for a long minute before laughter bubble up in his chest and he bursts out in choking guffaws.

Courfeyrac’s laughter is infectious, always is, and within seconds they are laughing uproariously too. Combeferre has to lean in the doorway, holding his ribs, but enormously glad they have elicited such a reaction from Courfeyrac.

“Oh...oh...thank you, my friends. I needed that...” Courfeyrac manages to say as he pants for breath. He wants to hold out his hands to them, as he usual would, ever tactile, but doesn’t, still uncomfortably aware of his poxed state.

Jehan, clearly, is unperturbed and climbs on to Courfeyrac’s bed, still holding an enormous bunch of flowers while Grantaire sits on the edge of it, right next to Courfeyrac, claps a hand to his shoulder and takes a good look at him.

“This is a good look for you.” He says, grin playing around his lips.

Courfeyrac glares but it has no venom; they have restored much of his usual good humour, and with Jehan handing him the biggest bunch of flowers he’s ever seen he’d probably forgive them anything.

“For me?” He says, touched as he takes them only to awkwardly discover he has no where to put them and ends up lying them across his legs.

“Of course. Everyone needs flowers, especially when you’re not feeling well.”

“Thank you. I love them.” He idly toys with a bloom, a deep, rich and ultimately cheerful yellow which somehow reminds him of Jehan. Jehan, whose hair, he notices, is adorned with flowers which seem to match the bouquet.

Combeferre lifts the flowers from his lap to put them into a vase, which certainly hadn’t been in the room a moment ago; Courfeyac hadn’t even noticed him leave.

Grantaire hands him a severely misshapen bag, all corners and edges poking its sides into odd angles, which turns out to be rammed full of enormous chocolate bars and several DVDs, including the afore mentioned horror films. Combeferre reaches over and takes that from it too. 

“I’m not letting you eat all of that chocolate, unless you want tummy ache too.”

Courfeyrac shakes his head, because he certainly doesn’t.

“Thank you.” He says again, happy when both Grantaire and Jehan seize a hand each and start chattering at him a mile a minute. They’ve visited Gavroche as well, Cosette is on pox watch with Marius, much to the latters bemusement and chagrin.

“He won’t be bemused if he gets this.” Courfeyrac growls in response. 

Joly is, apparently, equally watchful of Bossuet and both send Courfeyrac all their love in the world, plus a bit extra. Feuilly and Bahorel have offered their services as a distraction and entertainment should he bore of the horror films (and Disney, but Courfeyrac doesn’t mention this). Eponine is beside herself with guilt and insists she is going to make some grand gesture to make up for her little brother giving him the chicken pox; the Get Well card she’s sent with them is crammed on both side with her tiny handwriting, much of it apologising profusely, the rest a letter and more love from her and Gavroche. Courfeyrac slides it under his pillow to read later on. They gossip quite happily and unashamedly about their friends, conversation veering from their usual political vehemence and frustration to whether they should name the vein on Enjolras’ temple which twitches whenever he’s reigning himself in from eviscerating whoever has proven themselves worthy of such a response. Usually, it’s Grantaire. It’s a conversation they’ve all had with each other at one time or another, even Combeferre who expresses his concern over Enjolras’ blood pressure, because the vein really is quite noticeable on his otherwise perfect face. Speaking of Enjolras makes Courfeyrac miss him just a little bit, as much as Combeferre is the superior caregiver, there is something beyond adorable about Enjolras’ uncharacteristic awkwardness when he’s thrown into these domestic situations. He’s so full of love and affection for his friends Courfeyrac knows it overwhelms him sometimes and he just doesn’t know what to do with it all. Courfeyrac often takes it upon himself to be a valve of sorts for Enjolras and will frequently spring surprise hugs on him at the most unlikely times, often to Enjolras’ fond exasperation. Thinking of this makes him rather jealous that Enjolras has gone to work today, and little bit guilty. Courfeyrac loves his job as a lawyer, partly because Enjolras is his partner and partly because the law is his bitch and he owns it. They may be relatively junior at the practice they work for, but they are the rising stars and between them have won more cases in the year they’ve worked there than the rest of the practice combined.

He must have been lost in thought, thinking through their current caseload, because he feels a hand close around his wrist and realises he was absently scratching his collar bone. He looks up at Jehan and blushes. Jehan shows him a scar on his arm from when he’d had the chicken pox, age eight, (“Like a normal person.” Courfeyrac hisses bitterly) and they end up going through Grantaire, Jehan and Combeferre’s pox memories.

For a short while he almost forgets he’s ill while they sit, companionably, on his bed with him, talking nonsense and frivolity to him but after a few hours he’s starting to drift and exhaustion drags at his limbs and his eyelids. But for a little while longer he is content to sit back and let their conversation drift over him. Combeferre has been in and out for the past hour, being rather wonderful bringing them tea and biscuits at one point and probably otherwise repairing whatever damage Enjolras managed to wreak in his attempts at domesticity. He’s next to Courfeyrac now, legs stretched out next to each other on the bed. Courfeyrac catches his fingers with his and gives them a little squeeze. Combeferre shifts around so he can feel Courfeyrac’s forehead, which, as he thought it might be, is growing hotter again. 

Jehan, who is wonderfully sensitive to these things, pauses in what he’s saying and smiles. “We should probably go, let you rest.”

Grantaire nods, now taking in the sleepy slant to Courfeyrac’s eyes and the flush to his cheeks that wasn’t there before. “It was good to see you. Everyone’s been so worried.”

“’M’fine.” Courfeyrac says, without lifting his head from where it is tipped back onto the headboard. “Thank you for coming. It was nice.”

Jehan crawls forward to press a bisous to Courfeyrac’s cheeks, which makes him smile, and clambers off the bed. “Feel better.”

Combeferre sees them out, closing the door softly behind him.

“Oh, poor thing.” Jehan says, worrying his lip. “He’s really not well at all, is he.”

“It’s the fever mostly. A bit higher than it should be, but otherwise he’s alright.” Combeferre smiles reassuringly. “He’s tough.”

“Still, if there’s anything we can do...if you need anything.” Grantaire offers.

“Thanks. I’ll let you know. I think we’ve about got it between us, but the offer is appreciated.”

Combeferre sees them to the door, before dashing back to Courfeyrac, worried about the rising fever but Courfeyrac has already fallen back to sleep.

 

 

Enjolras is exhausted by the time he makes it home that evening and assumes he looks as much when Combeferre takes his bag, which turns out to weigh a ton, and coat for him, pointing him in the direction of the sofa. 

“You look done in. Hard day?”

Enjolras nods, rubbing his hand over his forehead where the headache which had been threatening all day has now bloomed. “I don’t feel well, actually.” He says, too tired to even think about putting up any sort of face to suggest otherwise. 

Combeferre sits next to him, hand immediately going to Enjolras’ forehead. “Not chicken pox?” He asks; it’s uncommon, but not unheard of to catch it twice, a fact which has Joly in paroxysms of worry over Bossuet and himself and much dark muttering about them all getting shingles.

Enjolras shakes his head, “No. I don’t think so.” But he does pull his shirt up over his stomach to inspect it, resting his chin on his chest and peering down his nose. It is, much to his and Combeferre’s relief, pox free.

Beside him, Combeferre sighs. “You don’t feel warm at all. As much as I hate to suggest it, but could it be the start of a migraine?”

Enjolras groans and flops sideways so he is more or less hiding behind Combeferre with his face pressed into the cushions, because, yes, it could be. “It better bloody not be.” He says, voice muffled by the sofa.

Combeferre laughs lightly and snakes and arm behind him to fish Enjolras out of his hiding place by the shoulder. “Well, hiding from it isn’t going to work. I suggest we go on the offensive...meet this thing head on.”

Enjolras sits up reluctantly. “That was a terrible pun. What, exactly, are you thinking?”

“Your migraines are related to stress and tension, and right now, you are as tense as a wire. So...relaxation.”

“Relaxation?” Enjolras looks sceptical; he is notoriously not good at relaxing.

“Relaxation.” Combeferre nods. “Now, come on. You go and lie down for a while and I will make...preparations...”

Enjolras still looks sceptical and now slightly afraid by Combeferre’s wording, but allows himself to be tugged to his feet and prodded in the direction of his bedroom. 

“I feel...er...thank you, ‘Ferre. I’m not sure this is fair on you, looking after Courfeyrac all day, and now looking after me, but thank you.” Enjolras says, shifting his feet uncomfortably. 

“You know I love it. And besides, Courfeyrac is far easier to take care of than you are.” He is smiling, teasing, as he says and stretches up to press his lips to Enjolras’ hair to remove any sting his words might have had. 

Enjolras blushes. “I would say you wound me most deeply, sir, if that wasn’t true.”

Combeferre laughs and gives him another shove towards his bedroom. “Go on. Think relaxing thoughts.”

Enjolras snorts and turns to attempt do as instructed. Halfway to his room he changes direction and pokes his head into Courfeyrac’s room to see if he’s awake.

He is, and reading, every exposed area of skin blotchy with faintly pink calamine lotion. He looks up when Enjolras pushes the door open, closing the book immediately and throwing Enjolras a wide smile. A smile like that from Courfeyrac cannot help but lift even Enjolras’ spirits and he returns the smile tiredly.

“Well, you look a fright.” Courfeyrac says, putting the book aside. 

“Coming from you...” Enjolras returns, teasing, with a hand gesturing to all of Courfeyrac. 

“I’m starting to think I pull this off rather well actually. Those bags under your eyes however, highly unappealing. Is everything alright?”

Enjolras nods, running both hands over his face. “Yeah, ‘Fey. I’m ok. Just tired. Don’t feel so great...”

“Pox?”

“That’s what ‘Ferre asked too, but no. No pox friends for you, I’m afraid.” He lifts his shirt again to illustrate his pox-freeness, before sitting on the edge of the bed, leg bent and crossed over his other one.

“Good. I’m glad. I wouldn’t wish this on anyone. I cannot describe how utterly, utterly awful this is.”

“You’ll be better in no time.” Enjolras says taking Courferyrac’s hand. “’Ferre says you’re much easier to look after than I am.”

“Well it’s my natural charm and effervescent personality.” Courfeyrac replies lightly. “Not that you’re not charming and effervescent, but you can be a recalcitrant bugger when you’re not feeling well.” He pats Enjolras on the hand.

“Usually because I’m actually fine, and everyone is fussing around me like I’m about to wave goodbye to this mortal coil.”

“Your knee is still stiff in cold weather because you walked on it for two days before getting it popped back in.”

“It wasn’t fully dislocated!” Enjolras exclaims. “And it wasn’t for a whole two days...ah...” he pauses, rubbing his head when the pain flares dangerously. “You know what, fair enough, you win, I’m too tired to defend my position. I’m a pain in the arse, guilty as charged.”

Courfeyrac takes his other hand and drops kisses over his knuckles. “Yes, you are. But we love you all the more for it. Now, would you like a hug? It might make you feel better. Sorry about the crustiness.” 

Enjolras has to laugh as he says it, but willingly accepts the hug, trying not to touch Courfeyrac too much and set off anything itching.  
“So, migraine, then?” Courfeyrac says as he settles back onto his pillows. 

Enjolras’ raises his eyebrows, surprised. “Might be. How did you...”

“You forget I know you as well as Combeferre does. You have that pinched look you always get before a migraine starts. So would you like to lie here with me, in the dark, or your own room?”

Enjolras smiles, “You just want me here as a distraction.”

“True. But you are a very good distraction, and I’m rather good at getting you to relax. Which is what I suspect Combeferre has prescribed?”

“It is.”

“Well then. Stay with me, distract me from the horrible itching and I will help you relax, god knows you’re terrible at it, and everyone’s happy.”

So Enjolras concedes, and climbs over Courfeyrac, mindful of knocking him and triggering itching, and lies next to him on his back as Courfeyrac finds the switch for his bedside lamp and plunges them into darkness.

 

“I thought I might find you in here.” A voice says softly next to his ear. “Shh...I think Fey’s asleep.”

Enjolras sits up slowly, just about making out Combeferre’s face in the dark. Combeferre takes his hand and guides him from the room towards the bathroom, where a soft glow emanates from under the door. 

Steam rushes over them as Combeferre opens the door, and the scent of something floral is in the air. The room is lit only by flickering candle light, softened even further by the steam and Enjolras doesn’t know what to say.

“You...a bubble bath? You drew me a bath. Ferre?” He goes for the obvious.

“Trust me. You’ll love it. It worked for Courfeyrac earlier.”

“I’ll try anything once.”

“That’s what he said.”

“Heaven help me if I start channelling Courfeyrac.”

“Heaven help all of us. I’ll leave you to it.”

Enjolras is still somewhat sceptical; he’s never entirely understood the appeal of baths, but even he can’t deny how tempting it looks nor the effort Combeferre has put into making this a relaxing experience. Enjolras didn’t know they even had candles in the flat. So he strips off and steps in, and as he sinks down into the just this side of too hot water he feels his muscles slowly begin to soften and melt. There is, clearly, method to this bath madness after all. 

By the time there is a knock at the door he’s so far gone he barely notices, never mind starts, and has to think for a minute to coral his vocal chords and tongue into forming words.

“Are you sufficiently covered by bubbles for me to come in?” Combeferre’s voice says.

Enjolras makes some sort of noise Combeferre clearly understands as affirmative as he cracks the door open and slips in. He has two glasses of wine in his hands.

“Are you magic?” Enjolras says, not caring at all that he is slurring. He is never moving, he is putting serious thought to restructuring his life so it can be effectively run from this bathtub.

Combeferre laughs in a way that makes Enjolras think he’s missing something and takes a seat on the toilet seat. “Here, wine, it makes it even more fantastic.”

Enjolras takes a glass and holds it precariously in lazy fingers, one arm draped over the edge of the bath. “You’re amazing. I’m never leaving this bath.”

Combeferre laughs. “Ha. Give it half an hour and you will. But I am glad you are enjoying it.”

“I’m never teasing you again about baths, I swear.”

Combeferre only smiles softly. Enjolras has his eyes closed, so doesn’t see, but he does feel gentle fingers comb damp tendrils of hair back from his forehead. He opens his eyes to look seriously at Combeferre. “You are far, far too good to me, you know that?”

“Not at all. I hate to see you, either of you, suffering. Although, sometimes when you are being difficult, I do wonder.” Combeferre says, fingers still toying idly with Enjolras’ hair.

“You know I never mean to be, don’t you? I just...can’t help it.”

“I know. And I wouldn’t change you or Courfeyrac for the world, but if you could maybe reach some sort of happy medium between his clinginess and your obstinacy it would certainly make my life easier.”

“We’ll see what we can come up with.”

“Not at the same time, if you can at all manage it. I’m not sure my nerves could take it. Courfeyrac with the chicken pox is bad enough. I do have an ulterior motive in heading off this migraine.”

“Again, that’s an awful pun.”

“My apologies. It’s sort of hard to avoid. Like the word ‘spot’ with Courfeyrac at the minute.”

“Well, I shall make you a promise to willingly and eagerly do anything you ask of me tonight, for the sake of your nerves.” With a languid gesture he offers Combeferre his hand, the left because it’s nearer, to shake to seal the deal.

“Thank you. I don’t suppose we could negotiate an extension on this compliance of yours.”

“We’ll see. As I said if I’m half-blind with pain in the morning I’m not sure I can be held accountable for my actions.”

“That’s fair enough I suppose.” 

“I can pre-emptively apologise and offer you my whole-hearted permission to pin me down and pump me full of whatever drugs you see fit then.”

“It is appreciated. But in this current vein of full disclosure I feel honour-bound to tell you that’s what I would have done anyway. Sorry.”

Enjolras cracks one eye open to look sideway at him. “I don’t blame you. Courfeyrac agrees with you, by the way. I think his exact words were recalcitrant bugger.”

“Apt.”

“Indeed. Could you take this for a moment?” Enjolras passes Combeferre the wine glass and sinks entirely under the suds for a long minute.

“Better?” Combeferre asks when he surfaces, running his hands through his hair to pull it back from his face. Enjolras wet, looks very different to Enjolras dry, fair blond hair dark with water and flat against his head where it normally forms a sort of helmet of curls in varying states of frizziness, depending on how much he has run his hands through it in frustration.

“Much, thank you, again.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Enjolras takes the wine glass back, chinking it against Combeferre’s briefly before closing his eyes with a very contented sigh.

There is silence for several moments, and Combeferre wonders if Enjolras has actually fallen asleep.

“’Jol?” He whispers, in case he has.

“Mmm.” He’s not.

“Should I be worried that this is the second time today I’ve helped one of my friends take a bath?”

Enjolras laughs. “Probably.”

Combeferre laughs too, standing. “I’m going to leave you to enjoy it then. Unless you want me to scrub your back too?”

“I’m good, thanks.”

“Try not to drown.”

“Will do.”

When Enjolras finally emerges some time later it’s all he can do to fold himself bonelessly onto the sofa and make a note to himself to do something really grand for Combeferre at some point soon. He knows there’s dinner cooking somewhere, he can smell it, and the amazingness of Combeferre once again never ceases to amaze him.

“How has he been today?” Enjolras asks Combeferre when he flops down onto the sofa beside him. He reaches over to bury his fingers into Combeferre’s hair.

Combeferre sighs, leaning his head into the touch so Enjolras can dig his fingers into his scalp and the base of his skull. “He had a bit of a wobbly moment this morning, itchy and feverish and really quite upset but the bath helped a hell of a lot. Tad worried about the fever actually, his temperature’s been higher than it really should be. I’m sure everything’s fine, but I want to keep an eye on that. He’s slept a lot, which is good, but I’ll have to wake him now for dinner and so he sleeps tonight.”

Enjolras nods. “Grantaire said he and Jehan came over.”

“Mmm, yes. ‘Fey didn’t want to see them at first but I think it did him no end of good, despite tiring him out, he’s been in a much better mood since.”

“I hate seeing him upset.”

Combeferre nods his agreement, glad, for a moment, Enjolras wasn’t home today to see Courfeyrac so distraught. Words have been temporarily lost to the wonderful things Enjolras’ fingers are doing to his head. He congratulates himself on the frankly quite genius idea of sending Enjolras for acupressure in an attempt to deal with his headaches, not only because it has had an effect but also because Enjolras has picked up some of the technique and that technique is currently being applied to his own head. 

“You’re on call tonight, right?”

“Mmmhmm. 12 until 12. You never know, I might not get called in.” This was sheer optimism, and highly unlikely to happen. The call phone always went off.

“You should sleep, in case you do.”

“I will, after dinner. Bolognese.”

“Thank you.” Mentally, Enjolras begins to plan his really grand something for Combeferre. He’d end up cooking tomorrow, but as this wasn’t exactly a particular talent of his, it wasn’t really going to qualify as grand. Maybe he should rope Grantaire, more gifted in the kitchen than he, to help.

“Are you feeling better?” Combeferre asks, breaking into his planning.

“I’m fine.” He answers automatically. It takes him a minute to understand why Combeferre shoots him a look. “Ah...sorry, it’s still there, the pain but it’s better. Honestly. Your bath and terrible puns worked.”

“Good. Don’t think I’m letting you out of that promise.”

“Would I?”

Combeferre hmms a response before getting up. “Come on, dinner. Can you wake ‘Fey? Dinner and then bed for everyone I think.”

Courfeyrac has to be coaxed from sleep, and coaxed to eat but his fever has stayed steady for the past few hours so Combeferre is happy enough. Enjolras is beyond happy to sink into his bed that night, worn out from a day of trying to organise his and Courfeyrac’s caseload so he can work on it from home, and fend off what was promising to be a truly horrendous migraine. He hadn’t lied to Combeferre though, the bath really had worked and he could fall easily into a painless sleep, plotting his Grand Gesture.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that chapter ended up being quite long and unbelievably, there is still more to go, I think. Talk about the plot bunny gone mad.  
> Hope you enjoyed reading! As ever, comments and prompts appreciated!


	6. A Pox on This Gout : A Gout on This Pox

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the thanks in the world to Kchann88; you know why, dear.

“’Jol? ‘Jol.” Combeferre’s gentle shaking awakens Enjolras . “Sorry to wake you. You can go straight back to sleep.”

“It’s fine...what is it?” He sits up, rubbing sleep from his eyes. 

“Call phone went off. I’ve been called in.”

“Ah. I’m on Courfeyrac duty?”

“Yeah. I shouldn’t be more than a few hours.”

“Go, go. We’ll be fine.”

“Call me if that migraine makes an appearance. I mean it , ‘Jol. If you’re not feeling well, ignoring it is the worst thing you can do.”

“I know. I know. I will. I promise.”

“Good.”

“What time is it?”

“Too early. ‘Fey won’t be awake for hours. Go back to sleep.”

Enjolras lets Combeferre push him back down and feels a quick squeeze to his hand and a kiss pressed to his forehead. “Have fun.” He murmurs, already halfway back to sleep before Combeferre is out the door.

 

Enjolras manages to get back to sleep, but it isn’t for long; dawn breaks through his window, casting the room in a bright glow. This is fairly customary for him, an early riser by nature, but as he has nowhere to be today he stretches and rolls on to his back to think for a while.

Most of the time, he enjoys these early mornings, quiet, peaceful, and his, alone with his thoughts. Occasionally, he rues his inability to sleep in, particularly after late nights when he’s tired or when he’s trying to evade a migraine. Today though, he is pleased to note that all signs of the migraine which threatened last night have faded; Combeferre’s magic worked so he can revel in drifting around in his own mind, without the looming expectation of things to do that day. It’s a Saturday, and as much as he loves his job, even he needs a break and he has to admit it isn’t quite as much fun with Courfeyrac off sick and so the only expectation of him today is to look after him. 

He so far lost in his thoughts that he starts violently when the door to his room creaks open. Combeferre surely can’t be home already. But it’s Courfeyrac, hovering in the doorway shivering slightly in his thin pyjamas.

“’Fey? What’s the matter?”

“Can’t sleep.” He says, but exhaustion warps his normally warm, good-natured tone.

“Come here.” Enjolras flips his duvet back and reaches out for Courfeyrac’s hand, pulling him down onto the bed. 

Courfeyrac climbs in and Enjolras wraps an arm around him; he tucks Courfeyrac’s head under his chin, resting on his shoulder. “Did you have a nightmare?” He asks, feeling Courfeyrac’s forehead as he brushes brown curls out of his eyes, wondering if the fever is giving him strange dreams. 

Courfeyrac shakes his head, pressing his face into Enjolras’ chest. “No. I think I slept too much yesterday. Can’t sleep now. Just feel…” he huffs out a breath.

“Poorly?” Enjolras finishes for him.

“Yeah.” Courfeyrac sighs, his misery very clearly legitimate and entirely devoid of any sense of feigned melodrama.

Enjolras smiles slightly to himself, imagining how Courfeyrac might have been as an ill child. 

“Well, Combeferre’s been called in to the hospital so it’s just me and you until lunchtime. I’ll try think of something to cheer you up.”

Courfeyrac sniffs and wriggles closer to Enjolras.

“Cold?”

“Mmm, you’re nice and warm though.” Enjolras radiates heat, always has, as if his passion and enthusiasm burns in his veins, heating him up from the inside. 

“Glad to know I have some use. Human radiator.”

“You need to earn your keep somehow.” Courfeyrac murmurs, rewarded with the vibration of a laugh reverberating through Enjolras’ chest. “How’s your head?” Courfeyrac asks after a minute.

“Hmm? Oh, fine. All better.”

Courfeyrac cranes his neck and twists to try and see Enjolras’ face, raising his eyebrows in disbelief, an expression he no doubt picked up from Combeferre. Enjolras tips his chin onto his chest and looks along his nose at Courfeyrac. “Really. It is. I’m fine, Courfeyrac. I promised Combeferre I’d take it easy if I felt so much as a twinge. We can look after each other, today, alright?”

Apparently satisfied, Courfeyrac rests his head back where it was and curls into Enjolras’ side. Eventually, his breathing evens out and he sleeps. Enjolras shifts slightly to take the pressure off his back and lies still, fingers idly playing with Courfeyrac’s hair. He doesn’t even realise he’s falling asleep until he feels himself sliding quickly out of consciousness, Courfeyrac’s body warming his own.

 

He’s sweating when he wakes, Courfeyrac still tucked against him and fast asleep, mouth slightly open. 

Enjolras eases his arm out, rolling Courfeyrac gently off him because the heat is already making him feel claustrophobic. 

He touches Courfeyrac’s forehead lightly, and confirms what he suspected on account of his sweat soaked t- shirt, that Courfeyrac’s temperature’s up and he’ll have to check properly as soon as he’s awake.

But for now Enjolras leaves him asleep. He peels off his damp shirt, shivering slightly in the cool morning air and heads to the shower.

He hasn’t woken up by the time Enjolras has finished, so he’s left to find breakfast for himself and potter around. He finds a note from Combeferre on the kitchen table, reiterating his earlier instructions and then another on Courfeyrac’s bedside table when he makes his bed for later on, this one reminding Courfeyrac not to let Enjolras push himself if he suspects the migraine is any worse, which explains his concern earlier that morning. It is so very typically Combeferre that Enjolras smiles, rolling his eyes.

He’s debating the merits of making coffee when he hears coughing coming from his room and finds Courfeyrac on his front, leaning up on his elbows, shoulder blades spasming with each cough. 

Courfeyrac clearly doesn’t notice his presence; he jumps when Enjolras sits beside him and puts a hand between his shoulder blades. 

“Christ. ‘Jol. You scared me.”

“Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. Do you want a glass of water?”

Courfeyrac nods, one hand massaging his throat. Enjolras frowns to himself as he fetches a glass of water; Courfeyrac sounds hoarse, which he didn’t recall from that morning though he’d been speaking in a whisper then. 

Courfeyrac takes a long drink gratefully, passing the glass back to Enjolras and flopping backwards into the pillows. “Thank you. And for last night....” He scratches irritably at his belly for moment and then stops himself, tucking his fingers under his thigh at a look from Enjolras.

“What I’m here for. You sound a bit hoarse, actually. Are you alright?” Enjolras asks, reaching for his forehead.

Courfeyrac bats his hand away, glaring with irritation and fever. “Just wonderful, ta. I caught chicken pox, Enjolras, I’m hot and itchy and feel like death. No I’m not bloody alright.”

The hurt flashes across Enjolras’ face, disappearing before Courfeyrac registers it, but he knows what he’s said and he’s immediately sorry, annoyed at himself for being so bad tempered. 

“’Jol...’Jol. I’m sorry.”

But Enjolras isn’t the sort of person to be vindictive or retaliate so petulantly, and certainly not in light of a momentary snap of Courfeyrac’s usually unshakeable good humour, which is really what makes it such a shock. 

“It’s alright. It’s not nice, being ill, I know.”

“I’m still sorry. Silly, throwing a tantrum like that.”

“I’d hardly call it a tantrum.”

Courfeyrac shrugs. “Still though. I’m sorry.”

“You’re practically a kitten in comparison to me, if I’m to believe even half of the stories you all tease me with.”

“We only tease you because we love you. And only when you’re all better.”

Enjolras raises an eyebrow.

“Alright, well mostly better. And you’re not that bad, not once we’ve got you to admit you’re ill. It’s just getting to that point is like pulling teeth.”

Enjolras colours a little, causing laughter to bubble forth from Courfeyrac, which puts Enjolras a little more at ease.

“The last time, you made such a fuss about having your temperature taken we had to pin you down.”

Colour flood Enjolras’ cheeks in embarrassment. “I still haven’t forgiven you for that. It wasn’t necessary.”

“Oh no, flushed red with fever and sneezing like it’s going out of fashion. You weren’t ill at all. Oh! Oh. And you protesting in that stuffy little voice...” he bursts into fresh giggle at the memory. 

“If you weren’t ill I’d hit you.” Enjolras says, dropping his head so his hair hides his face.

“But I am so you have to be nice to me.”

“You reckon so?” Enjolras asks, one eyebrow raised. Courfeyrac grins and Enjolras returns the smile after a beat, glad to see a smidge of Coufeyrac’s usual character surface. “Well, I’ve been left instructions, as to your care and maintenance, so I better get on with them. And I suspect I’ll have a report to give over the phone before long so...”

“Dear Combeferre, he’s such a worry wart. I have similar instructions regarding you.”

“I know. I saw when I made your bed earlier.”

Enjolras looks up to find Courfeyrac scrutinising him. “I was telling you the truth this morning. I swear I was. I’m not being difficult.”

“Come here.” Courfeyrac instructs, holding out his hands. Enjolras sighs and leans forward so Courferyac can take his face between his hands and look into his eyes. “Come on, ‘Fey. I’m fine. Really. I was very good last night and promised Combeferre I’d take it easy if I had even a smidge of pain. But it’s gone. All better. I keep my promises.”

Courfeyrac nods and gives Enjolras’ cheek a little pat as he releases him. “You do. Alright, I believe you. But promise me too you won’t hide anything just because I’m ill.”

Enjolras rolls his eyes but nods his promise, squeezing Courfeyrac’s hand. “Enough of me. Your throat’s sore? You really do sound hoarse.” Enjolras asks. 

Courfeyrac nods. “Really sore. And my glands feel huge. Hurts to swallow. It’s horrible.”

“Oh, bless you. I’ll make you some tea, see if that helps.”

Courfeyrac sniffles and looks absolutely miserable.

“Do you want to move back to your bed?” Enjolras asks. “Or stay in mine?”

“Stay here?” Courfeyrac says in a small and uncharacterically shy voice. Enjolras nods, smiling slightly, and stands intending to fetch breakfast. “Where you going?” he asks, catching Enjolras’ wrist.

“Just to get you some breakfast.”

Courfeyrac screws his nose up, but says nothing and lets Enjolras go.

Courfeyrac only picks at the cereal Enjolras coaxes him to eat, but manages most of the tea as it does help his throat.

“I had a thought, last night.” Enjolras says, sitting on the end of the bed and arranging his long legs alongside where Courfeyrac’s make a long lump under the covers.

“Sounds painful.” Courfeyrac comments, swirling the spoon in his cereal.

Enjolras, ignores the jibe, and continues. “To say thank you to Combeferre for looking after us both the other day, I thought I’d make a nice dinner for him tonight.”

“You. Make dinner. You.”

“Alright, no need to be sarcastic about it. I’m well aware of my....deficiencies in the kitchen. I was planning on asking Grantaire to help me.”

“Oh. That is a good idea, actually.”

“Always the tone of surprise. So you don’t mind me asking him to come over?”

“No, it’s alright. I saw him and Jehan, yesterday. Jehan brought me flowers.”

“Oh that’s where they came from, although why I even wondered, I’m not sure. Are you finished with that? You’re just playing with it now.”

Courfeyrac nods, the horrible miserable expression falling back over his face again as he scratches first his arm and then his leg and then drops his hand with a look of abject dejection and frustration.

“Is there anything I can do to cheer you up? I can’t stand to see you look so miserable.” Enjolras says, taking both his hands as a distraction.

“Can you make the itching go away?” He asks plaintively. 

“I’m afraid not, sweetheart. We have cream, which might help. And bringing your temperature down a bit.” Enjolras presses his wrist to Courfeyrac’s forehead. “Let me check properly?”

Courfeyrac agrees and lets Enjolras leave for a few minutes to fetch the thermometer, medicines and creams he’s being given and a glass of water.

Enjolras’ suspicions were right and Courfeyrac’s temperature is higher than it has been while Enjolras has been looking after him, high enough to cause a swoop of worry to tighten in his belly. Courfeyrac must read the worry in his expression because he reaches over to squeeze one of Enjolras’ hands.

“It’ll come down with medicine.” He says, taking the tablets Enjolras is already handing him. It hurts to swallow but he gets them down and drinks the whole glass of water at Enjolras’ prompting.

“It’s meant to be me comforting you, you know.”

Courfeyrac grins, some semblance of his usual self surfacing in the expression for a moment. “You are a big comfort, ‘jol. I swear. But sometimes I think you’re more of a worry wart than Combeferre.”

Enjolras feigns insult. “Heaven forbid,” he replies, returning Courfeyrac’s smile as the worry recedes a touch. He holds up a bottle of lotion. “This might help.”

Courfeyrac nods, and begins to undo the buttons of his pajamas but his fingers feel clumsy and shaky so he quickly gives up, looking plaintively at Enjolras for help. 

“Defeated by buttons.” Courfeyrac bemoans, flopping back onto the pillows as Enjolras takes over, making short work of the buttons with nimble and deft fingers, not reduced to useless appendages by fever.

He watches Enjolras’ hands as he dabs cream carefully and diligently over each spot, until the sight of his marred and disfigured torso starts to overwhelm him and he stares instead at Enjolras’ focused expression. Enjolras has lovely hands, Courfeyrac has always thought, particularly so since being afflicted with this god forsaken illness. He hadn’t noticed before how wonderfully cool they are when he is feeling hot and bothered, but warm when he’s chilled, always obliging when he aches for a warm hand to rub his back.  
He smiles now, as those fingers dance carefully and gingerly across his face, dotting cream here and there. He watches them, drawing a quizzical expression from Enjolras as he goes cross eyed trying to focus on his fingers as they dab cream on the spot on his nose which particularly annoys him, as he can see it in the corner of his eye. He goes back to Enjolras’ face then, studying the line between Enjolras’ eyebrows as he frowns in concentration. He watches as it smoothes out to leave barely a trace of itself when Enjolras’ face relaxes for a moment as he considers Courfeyrac’s face in return, on the hunt for any uncreamed spots. Courferyac is fond of this line because it gives him some sense of what Enjolras might look like as he ages, how those beautiful and angelic features might mature into a noble and wise countenance. He can see his future friend in that line, the creases which appear around his eyes when he smiles which might one day give way to wrinkles. 

“What?” Enjolras asks, pausing, cream threatening to drip from his crooked middle finger as he regards Courfeyrac curiously, aware of the scrutiny now. 

Courfeyrac smiles, “Nothing.” 

Enjolras quirks an eyebrow, and resumes his work. Courfeyrac returns to his staring, and musing, chuckling as Enjolras meets his gaze occasionally, blushing at first, but then shaking his head ruefully entirely accustomed to his friend’s oddities. 

Courfeyrac knows he himself is handsome, dark hair and green eyes framed by equally dark eyelashes, and he also knows their looks have had an impact on their meteoric rise through the ranks of the law firm for which they work. It is nothing in comparison to their intelligence, their passion for justice and the law and their disarming charm but wicked good looks and youthful faces have helped to mark them out as the wunderkinds of the law world, this angelic and fair boy of a man, with eyes that burn with electricity and fire, framed by deceptively delicate features and this dark, wickedly handsome man, strong masculine jaw and mischief dancing in emerald eyes which can turn as hard as diamond in seconds. They make a striking pair, Enjolras, fair, light and unattainable where Courfeyrac is dark, wicked and inviting and many an opposing council has underestimated them, to their own downfall. They work astoundingly well together, partners in crime, for all it is a horrendous joke, the dynamic duo, complimenting and correcting each other in seamless harmony. Intense and subtle in equal measure, long years of friendship have perfected their interactions to a fine art, and it is a game, an intricate dance to which only they know the steps, to bewitch and entrance the opposition, their clients, the judge, jury and their own colleagues. Courfeyrac has no doubt in his mind that should they so choose, they could take over the world. 

“You’re grinning.” Enjolras remarks. “Why are you grinning?”

“Because we’re brilliant. Did you know that?”

Enjolras grins too, instantly on his wavelength. “I had some inkling, yes.”

Enjolras finishes his face and tugs Courfeyrac upright to sit up so he can treat his back, handing Courfeyrac the bottle and clambering onto the bed himself to sit cross legged behind Courfeyrac as he does so.

“I brought a few cases home with me yesterday, in case you feel up to discussing them.” Enjolras says. “We don’t have anything pressing however, and I think Combeferre would rather you didn’t, but if you need a distraction...”

“Thanks ‘jol. Maybe. I’m bored out of my mind already, but I’m not sure I could switch my legal brain on without melting it.”

“Of course.” Enjolras says, trying his utmost not to sound disappointed. He is actually relieved; he and Courfeyrac are fiercely passionate and dedicated to their work so their discussions often become lively and animated, and it wouldn’t do at all to get Courfeyrac worked up in his current state.

“You’ve missed me.” Courfeyrac says, gleefully.

“How could I miss you? I’ve only been to work alone for a day since you’ve been ill.”

“You’ve missed me!” Courferyac sing songs.

Enjolras grows quiet for a moment before replying. “Maybe I have. I’m just looking forward to you getting better, not just because I hate to see you feeling so poorly, what’s the matter with that?”

“Nothing. Absolutely nothing.” Courfeyrac replies as Enjolras finishes with his back and pulls his pajama top back on. He is smiling as he thinks, once again, how much Enjolras is really just a big sop, fierce and intense on the surface, but loves his friends so deeply it hurts him. 

“All done.” Enjolras announces as he does up the last button on Courfeyrac’s top, “Does that feel a bit better?” He asks, rearranging Courfeyrac’s hair for him so it doesn’t catch in the patches of cream on his face while they dry. 

Courfeyrac nods feeling much more comfortable now and settles back into the mound of pillows Enjolras stacked behind him. He’s starting to feel slightly cold now; Enjolras must see him shiver as he shifts onto his knees to reach the comforter at the end of the bed and pull it up and over Courfeyrac.

Courfeyrac smiles gratefully, nuzzling into Enjolras’ touch as he traces the back of his fingers lightly over his cheeks before making Enjolras jump with a sudden cough he wasn’t expecting, bringing his hand to his mouth just in time. 

“Oh dear.” Enjolras says, passing Courfeyrac a glass of water once he’s finished coughing. Courfeyrac smiles slightly; it is a rather Combeferrian thing to say and it is amusing to hear Enjolras mimic him. “Better?”

“Yeah.” Courfeyrac mumbles softly, grimacing at the pain which flares in his throat as he speaks and swallows. 

Enjolras grimaces too, in sympathy. “Would you like another cup of tea? For your sore throat?”

Courfeyrac shakes his head and grabs Enjolras’ hand. “Will you just stay here for a bit?”

Enjolras blinks for a moment, then nods. “Yes. Yes of course.”

Courfeyracs tugs on his hand until Enjolras gets the hints and, smiling, lies down next to him. Courfeyrac wriggles around for a minute, until he can settle himself with his head resting on Enjolras’ chest and wrap his arm over his middle and hold on tight, lest he have any ideas of wriggling away and escaping. 

Enjolras is stiff for a moment, slightly surprised at this sudden cuddliness, but chuckles and relaxes, resting his chin into Courfeyrac’s curls. “Comfy there?” he asks, amusement colouring his voice. 

Courfeyrac nods into his chest, burrowing his hands under Enjolras’ clothes to warm his hands on his skin. 

“’Fey!” Enjolras gasps as his cold fingers brush against his skin, “Your hands are like ice.”

“S’ry.” Courfeyrac mumbles. The blasted itching has abated and he’s feeling sleepy, warming himself on the heat Enjolras exudes, but he retracts his fingers, bunching them instead into the fabric of Enjolras’ jumper.

“No...it’s alright. I was just surprised. Here...” He reaches down and presses Courfeyrac’s hands against his ribs again, still hissing and stiffening for a moment at the cold, relaxing again as he gets used to it.

Courfeyrac sighs, contented, as a kiss is pressed to his hair. “Try to sleep then. I need to call Grantaire at some point though, so you might have to let me up.” Enjolras murmurs. “Not yet, not yet....” he adds quickly at Courfeyrac’s noise of objection and brief tightening of his embrace.

He waits until he’s sure Courfeyrac has fallen asleep, snuffling softly into his jumper before fumbling for his phone under the pillow where it’s been since he fell asleep the night before.

“Enjolras. Hi.” Grantaire’s voice says after a few rings.

“Hi Grantaire. Are you busy?” he whispers, wary of waking the sleeping heap of Courfeyrac.

“Should I ask why before answering? And why are you whispering?” Grantaire asks, now whispering too. 

“Courfeyrac is asleep on me.”

“Ah. I assume you’re on pox watch?” Grantaire replies, sounding amused.

“You assume correctly.”

“Poor bloke. So, no, I’m not busy. What’s up?”

“I’d like to ask a favour. But it’s nothing too onerous.”

“Well, ask away, I am free as a bird until tonight, I am at your service.”

Enjolras laugh quietly at Grantaire affectations and asks, “I need your culinary expertise. I want to make Combeferre a really grand dinner and...”

“You don’t want to give him food poisoning?”

“Hey, come on. I’m not that bad.” He mutters something Grantaire doesn’t quite catch but sounds a lot like grumbling about teasing. 

“What?” he asks, bemused.

“Never mind.”

“Well, never fear, dear Apollo. I will handle everything. What time is Combeferre going to be home?”

“He was supposed to come off call at lunch time, but has ended up covering a shift for another doc so not until 7.”

“I’ll be there around 4 then, to set up.”

“4? Is that not a bit early?”

“Good food takes time.”

“Alright. As everyone keeps telling me, I’m clueless, so who am I to question.” He shifts uncomfortably, Courfeyrac is making him hot. He can’t help but feel cooking is not the only thing he is clueless about, as he wonders how on earth he’s going to keep Courfeyrac if not happy, then at least not downright miserable, all day, if this morning is anything to go by. “What?” He says, distracted as he realises Grantaire has been speaking and is now silent, presumably, waiting for his answer.

“I said, ‘too right, you’re clueless. I shall see you in a bit then.”

“Oh. Right. Yes. Thanks, R. I appreciate it.” Enjolras says, relieved and pleased Combeferre will, at least, come home to an edible dinner.

“Enjolras?”

“What?” Enjolras says, having missed Grantaire’s words.

“I asked if you were alright. You sound...off.”

“Off.” Enjolras repeats, unsnaking his free hand from around Courfeyrac to touch his forehead instead. He can’t be sure but he feels hotter, again, even after the medicine which usually helped. “Um..no, I’m fine.”

“Is Courfeyrac alright?” Grantaire asks, worry edging into his voice. 

“Yes, I suppose. As alright as he can be. Just a bit...I’m not sure...”

“Do you want me to come over?”

“No. No. Don’t do that. We’ll be alright. Helping with dinner would be fantastic though.” Enjolras says, trying to sound more reassuring than he feels.

“Alright, if you’re sure?”

“Yeah, we’re good.”

“Right. In a bit then. Bye.”

“Bye.” 

Enjolras hangs up, turns the phone to silent, shoving it under his pillow again and closes his eyes, letting out a slightly wobbly breath, wondering if he shouldn’t have been so quick to dismiss Grantaire’s offer of moral support. Worry about Courfeyrac seems to have settled in now permanently now, making his stomach tight and uncomfortable and he finds himself checking his phone unreasonably often for a message from Combeferre which doesn’t come.


	7. A Pox on This House

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Courfeyrac is struggling, Enjolras is worrying, Grantaire is cooking and Combeferre is still at work, much to everyone's regret.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for the delay on updating. Life happened!
> 
> An enormous thanks to KChann88 and chainsaw_poet because they are wonderful.

Courfeyrac seems to get warmer every time Enjolras touches him, tentative, wary of waking him, despite how fitfully he’s sleeping. He’s still in Enjolras’ bed, tossing around in the search for the cool spots on the pillow and sheets, Enjolras realises. He’s peeled the duvet back and replaced it with a sheet and much lighter blankets, which helps.

 

Enjolras finds it incredibly hard to concentrate. He’s dragged a stack of files into his bedroom and is using the end of his bed as a desk. He couldn’t sleep and couldn’t fight the urge to fidget (and risk waking Courfeyrac) any longer. So he’d made good his attempt to extricate himself when Courfeyrac rolled away, clearly uncomfortable once he’d warmed up, thanks to the fever and the heat Enjolras always kicks out. However, he didn’t think Courfeyrac would be pleased waking up alone, and Enjolras found he was reticent to leave him. So here he was, bent over a make shift desk, entirely failing to make head way into the new cases they’d been given and spending much more time glancing over at Courfeyrac, sighing, and fighting down the worry that was niggling in his belly. Was this how Combeferre felt all the time? He certainly seemed to worry enough about all of their friends, as did Joly, or perhaps they were just more accustomed to it?

 

Enjolras’ hand jerks, sending ink shooting across the sheets from his fountain pen, as Courfeyrac suddenly sucks in a breath and starts coughing, waking himself up in the process.

 

He sits up too quickly and presses a hand to his head as the room spins around him.

 

“Hey...hey. Steady.” Enjolras drops the pen, much to the detriment of the sheets and scrambles on to the bed to steady him. “Sat up a bit quickly, there.”

 

Courfeyrac nods, breathing as though he’d been running, eyes wide. “Sorry. Bad dream. Strange dream.”

 

Enjolras presses a hand to his forehead. “Thought so. You’ve been tossing around. I didn’t know whether I should wake you...I heard once you shouldn’t wake people up from nightmares and...”

 

Courfeyrac takes his other hand, to stop him. “It’s alright. Stupid fever. That’s all.” He looks over at the chair at the end of the bed, the case files spread across it and looks up at Enjolras. “Have you been working in here?”

 

“Trying to. Haven’t gotten very far.”

 

Courfeyrac looks touched and squeezes Enjolras’ hand. “Thanks. What time is it?”

 

“Just after 12.”

 

“Is Combeferre home yet?”

 

Enjolras drops his head, irrational guilt flooding him. “No, Fey. He’s had to stay. Too many other doctors off sick. He’ll be home soon.”

 

Courfeyrac tries really hard to keep his expression neutral, but knows he fails, watching Enjolras’ face drop in reaction. Enjolras musters up a smile though, and wraps an arm around Courfeyrac’s shoulders.

 

“R’s coming over though. And he’ll be a good distraction if nothing else. And I’m a much softer touch than Combeferre when it comes to these things, I won’t confine you to bed for a start. So, what would you like to do?”

 

Courfeyrac shrugs and rests his head on Enjolras shoulder looking up at him plaintively, weighing his options before finally landing on one. “Die?”

 

“Oh. Fey, come on. Don’t be like that.”

 

“I’m sorry. I’m just…all hot and bothered, and miserable.”

 

“Well I’m here to try my level best to make you feel even a little bit better anyway I can. Even cuddle all day if that’s what you want.”

 

“Really?”

 

“Really.”

 

“Thanks ‘jol. Love you.” Courfeyrac says, nudging Enjolras with his shoulder.

 

Enjolras nudges him back, murmuring “Love you too,” into his ear before easing Courfeyrac back down onto his pillows. Courfeyrac grins cheekily and reaches up to feel Enjolras’ forehead.

 

“Maybe you have a fever too, if you’re getting all soppy with me.”

 

“Get off.” Enjolras says with a laugh, and peeling Courfeyrac’s hands away from his face. “You started it. And speaking of fevers, I should take your temperature again.”

Courfeyrac sighs and stares at the ceiling. “Do you have to? I think it’s pretty obvious I do have a fever.”

 

“True, but Combeferre left instructions, and I’m man enough to admit I’m slightly scared of Combeferre in doctor mode.”

 

“Fine.” Courfeyrac’ acquiescence doesn’t stop him from pouting through the entire thing. Enjolras tries not to be amused, but it’s difficult because Courfeyrac really does look like a petulant child.

 

“Are you going to take your medicine like a good boy too?” he teases lightly, partly in revenge for Courfeyrac’s earlier dig and partly to disguise his concern that Courfeyrac’s temperature has gone up rather than down since this morning.

 

“If you’re going to tease you can bugger off, Enjolras.”

 

“May I remind you, you are currently in my bed, where you asked to be, and I’m not above evicting you from it for your cheek,” Enjolras says. “And you have no room to talk about teasing, Courfeyrac.”

 

Courfeyrac sticks out his tongue and snuggles deeper into Enjolras’ bedding until only a shock of brown curls can be seen.

 

“I’ll take that as a ‘yes, ‘Jol, I’ll be good’.” Enjolras says.

 

Courfeyrac huffs from inside his bundle of blankets.

 

“Come on out of there. You’ve got medicine to take.” He reaches an arm into the nest of blankets and curls his fingers into Courfeyrac’s hair. “Come on. For me.”

 

“You know you can’t use that every time you want me to do something.” Courfeyrac says, surfacing and folding his arms across his chest as he takes the medicine from the spoon Enjolras is pointing at him.

 

“No, but it won’t stop me trying.”

 

“You need to be more creative.”

 

“Are you going to be difficult just to force me to think of cruel and unusual ways to make you behave?”

 

“Cruel?”

 

“If you’re naughty, I may be tempted.”

 

“Naughty? I’m not a child.”

 

“Despite the way you act sometimes.”

 

“Coming from you.”

 

“Yeah, yeah. I’m a terrible patient, heard it all before. Currently, you’re the patient so let’s get you fed, hmm? Anything you want for lunch?”

 

Courfeyrac shakes his head. “Not hungry.”

 

“You need to eat something.” Enjolras says softly, giving in to the urge to comb Courfeyrac’s hair away from his face.

 

Courfeyrac just shrugs. “Whatever you have.” Normally Courfeyrac is pickier than this, especially when he’s poorly, and Enjolras’ concern increases.

 

“Alright.” Enjolras says standing. “Well, it’s me, so I’m sorry it’s not going to be anything Michelin starred but I think I can manage soup.”

 

“Not chicken! Lest it anger the pox!” Courfeyrac calls after him.

 

...

 

“Come on, Fey. You need to eat at least a bit.” Enjolras wheedles, ten minutes later. “It’s not that bad. Even I can’t get tinned soup wrong.” This is true, he can microwave along with the best of them, but he has to admit, tinned soup is never the most appetising thing.

 

Courfeyrac gives him a sardonic look but eats another spoonful. “Sorry. I really don’t want anymore.”

 

“Is there anything else you’d like? Ice cream even, as long as you don’t tell Combeferre...”

 

Courfeyrac smiles, because Enjolras is trying so hard, but shakes his head. “Jus’ wanna sleep.”

 

Enjolras looks intensely worried and presses his hand to Courfeyrac’s forehead for what feels like the thousandth time that day with a deep sigh. “Alright. But you have to try and eat dinner. It’ll be nicer than soup; Grantaire promised to help me, so it ought to be safe.”

 

Courfeyrac smiles wanly, and presses his face into a cool spot on the pillow. Soup has made him feel uncomfortably hot, and itchier still, and he fidgets in bed, suppressing the urge to scream from frustration.

 

Enjolras looks desperately worried but Courfeyrac can’t find the energy to do anything to absolve it. Enjolras shifts to stand and Courfeyrac’s heart jumps.

 

“Where are you going?” He asks, hating his neediness as much as he is desperate for Enjolras to stay.

 

“Just to get you a cold cloth. I’ll only be a second.”

 

Courfeyrac’s mood is unnerving him somewhat. Courfeyrac is usually needy and clingy when he’s not feeling well, but he is also melodramatic and tends towards over-acting the part. This quiet, withdrawn and miserable Courfeyrac is foreign, and Enjolras worries more than he’d like to admit. He wishes Combeferre was here, but he won’t be home for hours now.

 

He takes a deep breath before going back into his own room, feeling sure he’s projecting anxiety onto Courfeyrac, which is probably the last thing he needs.

 

“There.” He says softly, pressing the cloth to Courfeyrac’s forehead. “Does that feel better?”

 

Courfeyrac nods and closes his eyes. “Will you read to me?”

 

“Of course. What should I read?”

“That one Ferre was reading a while ago?”

 

“The Pratchett one?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Alright but I’ll have to go and find it...”

 

Courfeyrac nods, and lets go of Enjolras’ hand so he can leave. He hates the panicky flutter of his heart when he’s alone when Enjolras is gone for several long minutes.

 

“Sorry.” Enjolras says, slightly breathless, when he returns, “Took me a while to find it. Under his pillow, of all places.”

 

Courfeyrac does crack the tiniest smile at that: a pale impression of his usually exuberant grin but it’s something. “Should have figured Combeferre would sleep with a book.”

 

Enjolras smiles back and opens it.

 

Enjolras has a good voice for this; he is a natural orator, able to imbue words with colour and emotion without it becoming forced or overblown and has just the right amount of dramatic tendency to do all the character voices as well. Combeferre, for all his skills, empathy and sheer wonderfulness, does not possess this talent. He has a nice voice, to be sure, smooth and soft and comfortingly soothing so it’s very easy to slip into sleep when he reads aloud like this. This is largely, what Courfeyrac wants right now, to sleep through this ordeal but finds himself so pulled into the story by Enjolras’ reading that he’s wide awake an hour later, very much wishing that Combeferre was here.

 

Enjolras has broken off several times now to take a sip of water or to clear his throat and Courfeyrac feels guilty for failing to sleep.

 

“This isn’t working.”He says quietly. “You’re just too entertaining. I could listen to you all day and not fall asleep until you lose your voice.”

 

Enjolras coughs into the back of his wrist. “Sorry. I could try to be less...entertaining.” he offers.

 

“No. I think it’s quite impossible for you. Besides, it sounds like you really might lose your voice, if you carry on.”

 

“I’m alright.”

 

“Never said you weren’t. But thank you for trying.” He pats Enjolras knee as an idea occurs to him. “You know, you should do children’s story time at the library, they’d love you.”

 

Enjolras glances up at him, smile spreading slowly across his face. “That’s…that’s not a bad idea…”

 

“It was mine. Of course it’s a good idea. Will you?”

 

Enjolras only smiles and closes the book.

 

“Do you want to try watching a film or something? I can set up the laptop for you...”

 

“Yeah, alright.”

 

Enjolras has to leave again, and Courfeyrac isn’t happy about it but is mollified when Enjolras sits next to him, with the laptop resting on his knees and he pulls Courfeyrac under his arm to cuddle in.

 

The film does a better job at sending Courfeyrac to sleep than Enjolras reading Pratchett did and after a while Enjolras is overheated again between Courfeyrac’s fever and the heat emanating from the laptop. He extracts himself without waking Courfeyrac and gets a shock when he finds Grantaire half inside his fridge, muttering to himself. He emerges wearing an appalled expression and holding a jar of marmalade with distinct disdain, giving Enjolras’ surprise a raised eyebrow in greeting.

 

“Hello.” Enjolras says, smiling as he recovers himself. “Has my fridge done something to offend you?”

 

“You mean aside from lacking any and all necessities to make anything remotely palatable?”

 

“I...er...we’ve been busy?” Enjolras replies, uncharacteristically awkward; dealing with Courfeyrac today has thrown him somewhat.

 

“I’ll grant you a reprieve, this time. As Courfeyrac’s ill, and, I imagine, a handful. Although he can’t possibly be any worse that you.”

 

Enjolras rolls his eyes and pushes himself into one of the stools at the breakfast bar. “Yes, thank you. I’ve already had this from Courfeyrac this morning. I’m the worst patient in the world, god knows why any of you are still friends with me.”

 

“We’re inexplicably fond of you.” Grantaire replies, holding up a misshapen lump which might have been a vegetable at one time or another. “This is a bio hazard. I expect this of you, of Courfeyrac even...but Combeferre? I shall be having words.”

 

“Combeferre’s been on nights, and pulled about half a dozen double shifts in the last two weeks. Hence me wanting your assistance in doing something nice for him, but if you’re just going to criticise my ability to manage a refrigerator then...”

 

“Oh give over, Testy. I’m teasing.”

 

“Sorry, I just...Courfeyrac’s really not well, and this...well, it’s not my forte.”

 

“What? Looking after people?”

 

“Mmm.”

 

“From what I’ve seen you’re reasonably adept. I’ve seen you rip people to shreds if they so much as look at one of your little ducklings wrong.”

 

“That’s....different. This is...caretaking. I’m...I’m just quite sure I’m getting it all wrong.” He says, resting his chin in his hands and watching Grantaire dive, apparently bravely, back into the depths of their fridge. “Ducklings?”

 

“Ducklings.” Grantaire confirms, but does not elaborate. “Or bear cubs.” He adds after a moment. “Because you can be as fierce as a mother bear when you want to be.”

 

Enjolras blushes down to his collar bones, glad Grantaire is still half ensconced in the fridge so he doesn’t see. “Thank you? I think.”

 

“Mmm. Maybe; your protectiveness and strength of character is admirable, but you can be as prickly as a bear with a sore paw too.”

 

“Is it pick on Enjolras day? Or just bear analogy day?”

 

“Oh, I’m happy whichever. Are you feeling persecuted? Put upon? Belittled?”

 

“Are you sufficiently entertained if I say yes?”

 

“Mmmhmm.”

 

“Then yes. Could we stop analysing my character flaws now, please?”

 

“As you wish, dear Apollo.”

 

“You are insufferable. And early. I thought you said 4.”

 

“I did. But you didn’t sound as okay as you claimed on the phone and I suspected I might need to augment your meagre supplies if I’m to have any hope at all of fashioning something delectable for our dear Combeferre.”

 

Grantaire finally straightens and turns to face him, holding a jar of mayonnaise in one hand and a jar of pickles in the other. Enjolras sounded exhausted as he spoke and he wondered for a minute if the banter had gone too far, but, no, Enjolras is smiling, chin propped in one hand as he watches Grantaire.

 

“You look flushed. Are you sure you’re not ill as well?” Grantaire asks with a brief frown, extending the hand which holds the mayonnaise to press the back of it to Enjolras’ forehead.

 

“I’ve had Courfeyrac wrapped around me for hours, and the laptop on my knee.”

 

“Ah. Well then. Were you aware that the date on this jar of mayonnaise actually predates you moving into to this flat?”

 

“I’m sure it’s fine. It’s mayonnaise, what can go wrong with mayonnaise?”

 

Grantaire looks at him in disbelief for a long, silent moment. “You’re ridiculous, you know that. Luckily for you, actually, luckily for Combeferre and Courfeyrac, you have me at your disposal. Now, first of all, has Courfeyrac eaten today? Actually, have you?”

 

Enjolras rolls his eyes. “Yes. I had breakfast, and a sandwich. Now who’s the mother hen? Courfeyrac hasn’t eaten, really. A few bites of cereal this morning, and a bit of soup.”

 

“Tinned? I assume?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Well, no wonder he didn’t want it. Right, well I can’t do anything with this atrocity you call a larder so I need supplies. I will prepare Combeferre a sumptuous feast, and something which will entice even the sickly one to partake.”

 

“Grantaire, you are a life saver.”

 

“You know, that might be nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

 

Enjolras swats him with a tea towel. “It is not. I reiterate, you are insufferable. Is there anything I can do to help? You have my services until Fey wakes up, I suspect.”

 

“Unsupervised, no. Just sit tight, oh godly one, and I shall return bearing sustenance.”

 

“And he says I’m ridiculous.” Enjolras mutters as he closes the door behind Grantaire. He hears Grantaire laugh as he descends the stairs.

 

...

 

Courfeyrac is still asleep when he checks on him, so Enjolras risks leaving him and raids Courfeyrac and Combeferre’s beds for soft furnishings and sets about creating a nest of sorts for Courfeyrac on the sofa in the hope he’ll feel like a change of scene which in turn might cheer him up, or at least relieve the monotony of bed rest.

 

“What are you doing?” An amused voice asks from behind him as he debates the best positioning of a small round cushion.

 

Enjolras whirls around, cushion clutched to his chest, to see Grantaire standing by the kitchen door, arms loaded down with shopping bags and smirk on his face. It occurs to Enjolras that he might have become a tad too involved in perfecting his nest building if Grantaire has been to and returned from the shop in the time it has taken for Enjolras to transform the sofa into an overflowing mess of duvet and pillow.

 

“I...” Enjolras clears his throat and straightens, gathering himself. “I thought Courfeyrac might need a change of scene.” He says, and pointedly puts the cushion down with as much dignity as he can muster.

 

Grantaire raises an eyebrow for a moment. Enjolras holds his gaze, daring him to comment further and holding his own tongue for seeking approval on nest-building. He does not need Grantaire’s approval on his nest.

 

“Good idea.” Grantaire says and disappears into the kitchen.

 

Enjolras stares at the open door for a second wondering why Grantaire constantly wrong foots him. He supposes this entire situation wrong foots him. Enjolras is at home in the courtroom, at a rally, giving a speech, leading from the front and taking action; this is all sitting quietly and waiting and trying not to do anything wrong and Enjolras very much feel like he’s flailing.

 

Giving his head a quick shake, he fluffs a final pillow with as much dignity as he can muster and follows Grantaire into the kitchen.

 

“Can you be trusted to put this all away, while I visit the invalid?” Grantaire asks without turning, looking in bafflement at a cupboard which clearly isn’t organised in any way of which he approves.

 

“Can I be trusted to put things away in my own kitchen? Yes. I think I might be able to manage that.” Enjolras responds drily. “Courfeyrac’s in my room, he was asleep last I checked don’t...”

 

“I won’t wake him up. See, mother hen...what did I say.”

 

“Mama bear, actually. And something about ducklings.”

 

“My point stands.”

 

Enjolras puts the tin he was about to shelve down and turns to look at Grantaire standing across the table from him, smirking. “Are you going to see Courfeyrac, or just mock me?”

 

“I live to mock you, dearest Apollo. But, alas, other friends have greater need of my particular charm at the moment, so whence I go.”

 

Enjolras finds himself staring at Grantaire’s departing back once again for a long minute before shrugging, and returning to putting away what seems to be the majority of Tesco’s.

 

...

 

 

“Where’s Enjolras?” Courfeyrac asks as Grantaire enters the room, laden down with a pile of DVDs.

 

“Well, hello to you too, sickie,” Grantaire snipes. “And to think I brought you my treasured Lord of the Rings extended editions that are enough to entertain you for two days with action packed Middle-Earth shenanigans, and you aren’t even happy to see me?”

 

“R,” Courfeyrac says, drawing out the name. “Don’t tease me, I’m ill. Of course I’m glad to see you. And your DVDs. I just was surprised Enjolras wasn’t right behind you.” He sits up groggily, sagging back against the head board.

 

“He’s putting away the groceries I bought,” Grantaire answers, taking a seat on the bed. “Wanted to do something, he said, since I’m not allowing him near the kitchen while I’m cooking. Bad vibes from that time he somehow burnt the bottom of a pot cooking rice.”

 

“That was one time,” Courfeyrac adds. “Though, the kitchen was filled with a lot of smoke…”

 

“Exactly,” Grantaire says. “Which is why he called me, because I don’t suspect his idea of a nice dinner for Combeferre involves burnt pots. Though I think Combeferre will be a bit too busy fussing over you to think about eating all that much.”

 

“I think Enjolras actually gets pretty close to Combeferre in that arena, at least when it comes to other people,” Courfeyrac says fondly. “Combeferre worries, certainly, it’s just who he is, but illness and medicine comes so naturally to him, obviously, but Enjolras fusses because I think he worries he’ll do something wrong. Bit of a mother hen.” He chokes on the last few words, descending into a coughing fit which caught him by surprise.

 

“Mother bear, more like,” Grantaire replies, withdrawing to the end of the bed with a faux horrified expression as Courfeyrac hacks into his hands.

 

“Oh come off it, R,” Courfeyrac mutters, wiping his mouth and glaring at Grantaire. “If you’ve had the chicken pox already you aren’t going to get it from me. Hell, Combeferre and Enjolras have slept in this bed and they haven’t got a spot on them.”

 

“I love you Courf,” Grantaire says, staying put. “But this is as close as I’m getting to your spotty-skinned self.”

 

“You spent much of yesterday with me already, anyway!” Courfeyrac points out.

 

“Yes, but that was when you were miserable and upset and it was normal, run of the mill chicken pox. Not this mutated rendition of the virus you seem to be incubating.” Grantaire says, indicating the patch of spots Courfeyrac is absently scratching on his collar bone.

 

Courfeyrac huffs in frustration and jerks his hand away, crossing his arm across over his chest. “If you’re going to get it twice, you are already doomed. Since when did you have Bossuet’s luck?”

 

“Didn’t say I did,” Grantaire counters. “I only know that I could get it, and there’s no way in hell I want it.”

 

“The chances…” Courfeyrac begins, rolling his eyes..

 

“Exist,” Grantaire finishes.

 

“Then you best leave entirely then. You could catch it from just being in this room with me. How I got it from Gavroche.” Courfeyrac says sulkily, scratching his leg before he realises and stops again.

 

Grantaire’s eyebrows raise in surprise and he finally shifts to sit right beside Courfeyrac. “I was only teasing really.” He says, apologetic enough that Courfeyrac gives him a tiny smile. “Come on, misery-face. Do you fancy a change of scene? Enjolras has made you...something...”

 

Courfeyrac’s expression transforms into curiosity as he nods and starts to climb out of bed and follow Grantaire down the hall. He feels horribly light headed and trails a hand along the wall for support, half afraid he’ll fall, and half relieved Grantaire hasn’t seen how shaky he is.

 

He is even more relieved to see Enjolras come straight to him and offer his arm gallantly, as soon as he reaches the living room. He leans heavily on Enjolras for support as he looks at the sofa, drowning under a sea of blankets and duvets.

 

“You built me a nest.” He says, rather pleased, and Enjolras sets him down in the centre of the thing.

 

Enjolras flushes and nods, “I...” He gives himself a mental slap for stammering again. He shrugs, aiming for nonchalant and feeling as if all he achieves is awkward. “Thought you might be sick of my bed...”

 

“I only like your bed because it occasionally it has you in it. You weren’t in it anymore...thus...” He smiles up at Enjolras, who is looking down, rather concerned at the flush the short walk has brought to his cheeks, an apology on his lips. “It’s alright. I knew you wouldn’t be far away.” He adds to make the guilty expression fade.

 

Grantaire is watching them, leaning in the kitchen door, amused smile on his lips. As well as he knows both of them, it is still strange to see them so far out of their usual context, and stranger still to see the concerned affection Enjolras exudes as he feels Courfeyrac’s forehead, and that concern descend into outright worry.

 

Courfeyrac for his part flushes and his eyes flick to Grantaire, pushing Enjolras away.

 

“’Jol, don’t, I’m okay.”

 

“You’re not, you’re roasting hot.” Enjolras murmurs, ducking his head so his lips are close to Courfeyrac’s ear and only he hears.

 

Courfeyrac takes his hand and squeezes. “I know, but just…don’t, alright. Stop worrying and come and sit with me?”

 

“You’re too hot, but I’m no good at telling…can I…?”

 

Courfeyrac’s eye flick to Grantaire for a split second. “Please don’t…it’s alright. Please?”

 

Enjolras eyes are round with indecision, his lip pulled between his teeth, glancing between Grantaire and Courfeyrac.

 

Grantaire takes the hint. “Well I need to get on with my masterpiece, exusez moi,” and ducks into the kitchen.

 

Enjolras looks back to Courfeyrac, eyebrows raised for permission.

 

“Please don’t.” Courfeyrac says, near whimpering now. “I can’t stand being fussed over right now. Combeferre can take my temperature when he gets back. He won’t be long now, will he?”

 

“No, course not.” Enjolras says lightly; Combeferre will be a good few hours yet, but hopefully Courfeyrac might sleep through some of those and not notice. “Well, let me make you comfortable at least.”

 

Enjolras arranges the pillows so that Courfeyrac is propped up in the corner of the sofa, with the duvet tucked over him. He worries for a moment that Courfeyrac might be too hot, but he hasn’t complained, and seems more content that he has been for a while, especially with Enjolras perched on the arm of sofa, stroking his fingers through Courfeyrac’s hair.

 

“Enjolras where did you put…” Grantaire asks, reappearing in the doorway wiping his hands on a tea towel. He stops short when he sees the two of them on the sofa, Courfeyrac with his eyes half-closed leaning into Enjolras’s touch. Grantaire presses his hands – and the tea towel to his heart. “That is literally the sweetest thing I have ever seen.”

 

Enjolras rolls his eyes, fighting the instinct to get up as Courfeyrac mutters a quick “Stay.”

 

Grantaire laughs. “Where did you put the garlic?”

 

“In the fridge.” Enjolras replies.

 

“Would you like me to put this on for you?” Grantaire asks, amused, holding up the Lord of the Rings box set.

 

Enjolras looks down at Courfeyrac, who nods.

 

“Please.” Enjolras replies.

 

Grantaire does so, and passes the remote control to Enjolras before squatting down by the sofa and looking at them with a smirk. “Can I get you two anything else?”

 

“I think we’re good, thanks,” Enjolras says, returning Grantaire’s smile as he heads back into the kitchen.

 

Courfeyrac sighs, watching Enjolras’ eyes follow Grantaire as he disappears.

 

“Go on.” He says, nudging Enjolras with a shoulder to his ribs.

 

“Hmm?” Enjolras replies, distracted.

 

“Go help Grantaire. You’ve done enough cuddling for one day, and you must be bored stiff. Go play.”

 

“It’s alright. I can stay if you like.”

 

“Really?” Courfeyrac asks with a disbelieving expression.

 

“Well, maybe I should help…”

 

“Go! Really, it’s alright. I’ll be alright, I’ll probably fall asleep in a minute”

 

Enjolras slips himself off the sofa, but can’t leave before checking Courfeyrac’s temperature once more. Worry comes in sharp swoops and stab in his gut as he ghosts fingers over Courfeyrac’s forehead, unable to tell if he’s hotter or just as hot as he’s been all day.

 

“Stop looking so worried.” Courfeyrac grumbles, taking his wrist and giving Enjolras’ hand a quick kiss. “You’ll get wrinkles.”

 

“Is that the thanks I get for my concern?” Enjolras says, trying for a light hearted smile. He leans over him to straighten out the blankets and peels a few off. “If you want anything…even it’s just me…”

 

“You’ll be ten feet away, ‘jol. I’ll be fine. Go help. Don’t burn anything.”

 

“As if Grantaire would let me.”

 

Courfeyrac chuckles softly and rolls over, making a bid for more sleep.

 

He is sleepy, the quiet murmur of Enjolras and Grantaire bickering in the kitchen close enough to keep the need for company at bay and give Enjolras at least a bit of break. His mind drifts but every time the tendrils of sleep come for him, something itches and he has to shift. After several frustrating incidences of this, it’s all Courfeyrac can do not to scream into the pillow and he sits up with a huff, intent on distracting himself instead.

 

To a degree, it works, until he glances down when something stings his arm to find his fingers clawing at it, blood smeared over his arm.

 

Ah.

 

...

 

In the kitchen, Grantaire sighs with exasperation. It is a comical reversal of roles; where Enjolras is usually the one despairing of Grantaire and his political apathy, his cynicism, it is Grantaire who is perplexed by just how incapable a man as smart as Enjolras can be in the kitchen.

 

“Julienne is the other way, Enjolras. Sticks, not discs.”

 

“Oh.” Enjolras replies, and dutifully begins to dice the carrots the other way.

 

In fairness, once corrected he produces good work, straight and even length and thickness, that is, until…

 

“Whoa…whoa…just…” Grantaire darts acorss the kitchen and divests Enjolras of the sharp knife before he can inflict any damage. “Slice the veg, not your thumb.”

 

“Sorry. I…”

 

“It was your thumb, not mine. I just prefer you with both opposable thumbs. Much easier to navigate things like doorknobs, you see.”

 

“Oh. Yes.”

 

“If you’re so distracted, maybe I shouldn’t trust you with a knife?” Grantaire says.

 

“No. I can handle the knife. I was just…” Enjolras says firmly, and picks up the knife again.

 

“Distracted?”

 

Enjolras looks up at him, knife held a safe distance from all digits. “Yes. I suppose.”

 

Grantaire pauses in what he’s doing and comes over to Enjolras’ chopping board and leans his hip against the counter.

 

“Stop worrying about Courfeyrac, so much. It’s just the chicken pox. He’s fine.”

 

Enjolras shakes his head. “He’s running a temperature.”

 

“Yes. Because he has the chicken pox. It’s normal. Stop fretting.”

 

“I’m not…fretting. I’m just…”

 

“Worrying? Concerned? Anxious? Uneasy? Disquieted? Perturbed? Constipated? Disconcerted? Distressed? Ill at ease? I could go on.”

 

“Please don’t. Constipated?”

 

Grantaire shrugs. “It’s one explanation for that expression on your face.”

 

“I do not look constipated.”

 

“No. You look worried.”

 

“Grantaire…”

 

“Enjolras.”

 

“Ugh. Fine. Yes, I’m worried. He’s not himself and I don’t know how to make him feel better.”

 

“I reiterate. He has the chicken pox, of course he’s not himself, of course he’s running a temperature. You don’t know how to make him feel better because there isn’t a way to make him feel better. Bar what you are already doing.”

 

“I’m still not any good at this.”

 

“If I was ill, I’d happily have you as my nurse.” Grantaire says, and it’s the honest truth, but he twists the sentiment by raising his eyebrows leeringly.

 

But Enjolras, who seems almost as out of sorts as he claims Courfeyrac is, doesn’t bite and responds in honest surprise. “Really?”

 

“Yes. Are you available for hire? And do you come with an outfit because…”

 

“You are infuriating.” Enjolras says, elbowing Grantaire sharply in the ribs, the moment ruined. Grantaire almost regrets it, but the exasperated half smile on Enjolras’ face is just as pleasing as the unsure, half-hopeful one of a moment before.

 

Satisfied that Enjolras has been thrown, and then restored to his usual humour, Grantaire turns back to prepping the meat.

 

“Enjolras?”

 

Enjolras is out of the kitchen, knife clattering to the chopping board, before Grantaire can even turn around at the sound of Courfeyrac’s voice. He smiles, amused, and follows more sedately.

 

“What’s the matter, Fey?“ Enjolras asks, sitting down next to Courfeyrac.

 

“I...uh...” He holds out his arm, where there’s a small trickle of blood. “I couldn’t help it. It just...” he smiles, apologetic and abashed.

 

“I know. It itches. I know. It’s alright. Let me get something to clean it up and a plaster. I’ll be right back.” Courfeyrac nods and lets him go.

 

Grantaire grins and comes over to take Enjolras’ place as he dashes off to the bathroom to find supplies.

 

“Best not do that your pretty face, wouldn’t want to ruin that complexion of yours.” He says, chuckling.

 

Courfeyrac glares at him. “That’s a horrible thing to say.” He snaps, turning away from Grantaire.

 

Grantaire is taken aback. Courfeyrac is always up for a bit of banter; Grantaire can’t honestly remember a time when he’s not taken teasing in good faith, or a time when Courfeyrac snapped at anyone. Perhaps Enjolras’ fretting isn’t as displaced and exaggerated as Grantaire had initially assumed.

 

“I’m sorry.” Grantaire says sincerely. “I was trying to make you laugh.”

 

“Well, that’s a pretty awful way to go about it...what if...”

 

“What’s going on?” Enjolras asks, back in the room, cotton pads, antiseptic and plasters in hand, looking quizzically at Courfeyrac’s glare and Grantaire’s guilty expression.

 

“Me being a tool.” Grantiare says by way of explanation and stands so Enjolras can resume his position. “Sorry, Courf. Really. I better...get back to the dinner.” And disappears before Enjolras can question him further.

 

Enjolras sits back down and raises his eyebrows at Courfeyrac instead.

 

“Doesn’t matter. I just over reacted.”

 

“If you’re sure...” Enjolras says slowly, tipping a bit of antiseptic onto a cotton ball. “This might sting.”

 

Courfeyrac nods and turns his head away, squeezing his eyes shut as Enjolras presses the cotton wool against the spot he’s made bleed. Enjolras makes quick work of applying cream and pressing a plaster over the top, fingers little touches of cool against his hot skin.

 

“There.” He announces when he’s finished.

 

Courfeyrac looks at him expectantly.

 

“What?”

 

“Combeferre always kisses it better.”

 

Enjolras repeats his words silently, lips moving before he smiles, fondly, indulgently, and presses a soft kiss against the plaster.

 

“Better?”

 

Courfeyrac nods.

 

“What is it, Fey?” Enjolras presses when Courfeyrac’s face falls again. “Did Grantaire say something?”

 

“He was only trying to help. It just...”

 

“It’s alright, Fey...”

 

“Is it going to scar?” Courfeyrac says so quietly Enjolras almost asks him to repeat himself.

 

“What? Your arm? I shouldn’t think so. That’s why I’ve covered it so...”

 

“No. I mean...you know...” He gestures to his face.

 

“Oh. Oh Fey. No, no, of course it won’t.” Enjolras says, heart melting at the miserable expression Courfeyrac wears under his spots. He shifts and repositions himself, folding his long legs under him so he can join Courfeyrac on the sofa and hold him close. “You have to try not to scratch, but you’ve been so good. It won’t scar, I promise.”

 

Courfeyrac nods and presses his face into Enjolras’ shoulder.

 

“Should I sit with you for a bit?”

 

Courfeyrac shakes his head. “No. I’m just being silly, and I can’t sleep. Help Grantaire, I want Combeferre to come home to a nice dinner too.”

 

“Are you sure?”

 

“Yeah. I’m sure.”

 

Enjolras doesn’t look convinced; Courfeyrac tries to flash him a charming smile, but all it seems to do is confuse Enjolras further. He potters about for minute, Courfeyrac watching him in amusement, before disappearing into a kitchen.

 

Courfeyrac feels his absence as soon as he’s out of sight, and takes a steadying breath. He’s a grown up. He doesn’t need his friend and partner-in-crime to hold his hand every minute. He even forces a chuckle at his own (poor, he’ll admit) pun.

 

“What?” Enjolras asks, reappearing with a tray.

 

“Nothing. Just keeping myself amused.” Courfeyrac says with feigned brightness and accepts the glass of juice Enjolras hands him.

 

Enjolras looks at him suspiciously but says nothing as he sets down a plate of nibbly things on the coffee table.

 

“I know your throat’s sore, but I thought you might want something to…um…”

 

“Pick at?” Courfeyrac guess.

 

“Sorry yes.”

 

“Maybe a ‘spot’ of tea?” Courfeyrac tries.

 

Enjolras lips quirk.

 

“Don’t you dare. Don’t you laugh. That was a terrible, and inadvertent pun from you and obvious and unoriginal one from me. No laughing for you.” But even Courfeyrac feels his lips twitch, watching Enjolras try to suppress a laugh.

 

“Sorry.” Enjolras says again, in a wobbly voice. “There’s yoghurt too.” He adds, gesturing to the tray.

 

To Enjolras’ pleasure, Courfeyrac actually picks up the yoghurt and begins to eat it, albeit slowly. But as he returns to the kitchen, to resume chopping whatever else Grantaire sets him to, his mind is in the other room, definitely worrying.

 

He doesn’t ask what Grantaire said to Courfeyrac, whatever it was between them, but it is out of character for Courfeyrac to take anything more than lightly and Grantaire unlikely to say anything to truly wound. Grantaire is slightly subdued now, so Enjolras chops and thinks and worries until there is a sharp pain in his finger and Grantaire’s hand like a vice around his wrist, holding his hand under the tap.

 

It looks like an awful lot of blood, Enjolras thinks and sharply wrenches his line of sight away as his head suddenly turns woozy.

 

“For heaven’s sake.” Grantaire mutters, inspecting the cut. “You are a liability.” He says and carefully wraps kitchen roll around Enjolras’ finger while he searches for an appropriate plaster in the box Enjolras conveniently left out. Enjolras makes a point of not looking at his finger.

 

“Are you…? God, Enjolras, you look like you’re going to faint. Here, sit down.” Grantaire pushes him onto one of the kitchen stools, and Enjolras feels embarrassment flush his cheeks.

 

“I’m alright. Not going to faint.”

 

Grantaire gives him a look, and notices Enjolras’ eye flick away as he peels back the kitchen roll.

 

“It’s not deep. Phew. Good job, didn’t really fancy running you down to the hospital with a finger hanging off. Combeferre would have killed me. And it would have rather spoiled the surprise. And thanks to Courfeyrac, we’ve already got everything we need down here. The two of you really are quite the team.” Grantaire chatters away to himself, turning Enjolras’ hand this way and that. Enjolras continues not looking at the bloody kitchen roll, or his hand, and muses instead, on how surprisingly soft and warm Grantaire’s fingers are on his arm, around his wrist.

 

“This is going to sting.”

 

There is pressure, the smell of antiseptic and then burning. Enjolras swallows a gasp, and keeps his face impassive until the sensation passes and he feels a plaster being wrapped around his finger.

 

“There.” Grantaire declares. “Hardly even needs the plaster really. Make sure you take it off tonight, so it can breathe.”

 

Enjolras nods numbly, and finally looks at his finger, where a plaster covered in cartoons is neatly wrapped around his finger between the first and second joint. Strangely, Grantaire hasn’t yet let go of his hand, but then again Enjolras hasn’t pulled his hand away either. Their eyes meet for a moment, and Enjolras smiles slightly, and a second later, Enjolras’s hand is at Grantaire’s mouth, and Grantaire’s lips are brushing over Mickey Mouse and friends.

 

Enjolras makes a sound which is somewhere between a laugh and a cry of shock. “What was that?”

 

“I heard that Combeferre always kisses it better.” Grantaire says, before he can stop himself.

 

There is a very, very loud silence in the kitchen. Then, slowly, carefully, Enjolras extracts his hand from Grantaire’s lips.

 

“God, sorry, that was really stupid.” Grantaire shakes his head. “It’s that Courfeyrac said… and I thought…. I thought it would be funny,” he finishes, in a tone which suggests that it wasn’t what he was thinking at all. “I should stop making jokes. I’m dying with the crowd here today.”

 

“No, you’re fine,” Enjolras says quickly. “We’re…we’re just not much of a crowd today, really,” Enjolras admits. “But it was nice, so thank you. For that, and for patching me up. “ He wriggles the plastered finger.

 

“Least I could do. Especially as you looked as though something had sucked the life out of you.” Grantaire is back on surer ground now, teasing Enjolras again. “Don’t much like blood, do you?”

 

“Does anyone like it?”

 

“Most people manage to avoid fainting.”

 

“I did nothing of the sort.”

 

Grantaire stares at him, mirth bubbling in his eyes as Enjolras feels his face grow hot. His reprieve comes in the form of a pot bubbling over and hissing on the stove.

 

“Ah! The potatoes.” Grantaire cries, darting to their rescue. “You.” He says, turning back to Enjolras and pointing at him with an oven glove. “Out. And stay out. Banished.”

 

...

 

“Hey, where are we up to?” Enjolras asks coming back into the living room and folding himself into a space in the nest. Courfeyrac immediately uses him as a pillow, coughing a little as he sits himself upright.

 

“Lothlorien.”

 

“Ah.”

 

“R’s kicked you out, hasn’t he?”

 

“No. I...um...retreat is the better part of valour?”

 

“You know the meaning of retreat? At least I don’t smell burning.”

 

“That was once!”

 

“The rice was. You burning toast is a daily occurrence.”

 

Enjolras pinches the bridge of his nose with a sigh.

 

Courfeyrac lifts his head to look at him, concerned himself.

 

Enjolras opens one eye and smiles. “I’m alright. Well, except for this.”

 

He wiggles his cut thumb, and Courfeyrac grins and holds out his arm.

 

“Plaster buddies,” he says reaching out his fist to bump against Enjolras’ own, and Enjolras complies, rolling his eyes with a chuckle. “But you’re sure you’re all right? No migraines?”

 

“No migraines. Stop fretting. Stop looking at me like that.”

 

“Swear?”

 

“I swear.” He’s saved further convincing by his phone ringing.

 

“How is he?” Combeferre asks as soon as Enjolras answers his phone.

 

“Feverish and itchy. And grumpy.”

 

“ ‘M’not grumpy’,” Courfeyrac grumbles, mostly into Enjolras’s chest. Combeferre clearly hears this because there’s laughter on the other end of the line.

 

“Oh dear.” Combeferre says. “Try a cool bath or a shower for the itching and the fever and there’s cream somewhere.”

 

“I will. Cream helped earlier. How’s work?”

 

“Will you still be alright by yourselves until 7? I can try to get cover...”

 

There’s the barest pause that only Combeferre would detect before Enjolras answers. “We’ll be fine. Don’t worry.”

 

“You’re doing fine, ‘Jol.” Combeferre says softly, and hears Enjolras sigh. “Really. I’ll see you soon.”

 

“See you later.”

 

“Call me if you need anything.”

 

“Will do.”

 

“Bye.”

 

“Bye.”

 

...

 

“You’re squirming again.”

 

Enjolras can’t deny it. Besides the fact that he just can’t sit still for very long, it’s unbearably hot underneath the blankets and pressed up against Courfeyrac, as it had been that morning. 

 

“Sorry. I am trying.”

 

“You are trying. Very trying indeed.” Courfeyrac manages a smile, but it’s a weak one even by his pox-ridden standards. “It’s all right. You managed half an hour. Besides, I’m too hot to cuddle anyway.”

 

“Half an hour? It’s after 3!” Enjolras hadn’t realised how much time had passed. “Then you need to have some more paracetamol.”

 

“Really?”

 

“Yes, especially if you’re too hot. And itching.”

 

Enjolras taps Courfeyrac’s hand, because, probably without even meaning to, Courfeyrac’s scratching at the side of his abdomen. Courfeyrac frowns and folds his arms.

 

“Do we only have tablets now? It’ll really hurt my throat to swallow them.” Courfeyrac has been fussing over taking medicine, but judging by the state of his voice, his throat probably really does hurt. But the tablets are all they have, and Combeferre had said how important it was to keep his temperature down. Not that paracetamol seems to be doing all that much, but it has to be better than nothing.

 

“Sorry, only tablets. I’ll text Ferre and ask him to bring some more of the liquid kind home for the dose after this one, ok?”

 

Courfeyrac’s expression suggests that this is very much not ok, but he says nothing. Somehow that’s worse.

 

When Enjolras returns with the pills and a glass of water, Courfeyrac has kicked off most of the blankets, so that they are now lying in puddles of fabric on the floor. Between the angry spots which are still dotted all over his face, poor Courfeyrac, his cheeks are flushed pink. His hands are balled up in tight fists, which suggests that he’s trying not to scratch. Perhaps it’s time for more cream after this, if he’ll take the fussing.

 

“Here.” Enjolras sits down on the sofa and holds out the pills and the glass. Courfeyrac doesn’t move. “Please, Courfeyrac.”

 

“When is Combeferre coming home?”

 

“Soon.”

 

“You said that last time.”

 

“Well… sooner than last time?”

 

“Why can’t I just wait for him to come with the liquid stuff, then?” Probably without meaning to, Courfeyrac raises his voice a little as he asks the question, which results in a series of nasty sounding coughs.

 

“Because we need to keep your temperature down.” Enjolras tries not the let the frustration at repeating himself creep into his voice.

 

Perhaps he doesn’t succeed entirely because Courfeyrac’s frown deepens and he snatches the pills and water from Enjolras, swallowing them sharply – which only makes him cough more.

 

“Careful,” Enjolras warns without really meaning to.

 

“Not like… ’m trying… to choke to death,” Courfeyrac gasps between coughs.

 

Sighing, Enjolras reaches over to rub Courfeyrac’s back, thinking that it might help to ease the coughing a bit. But the instant his hand touches Courfeyrac, his friend flinches away like he’s been struck.

 

“Don’t do that.” Courfeyrac has stopped coughing now, but his voice is horribly roughened.

 

“Do what?”

 

“Touch me. It makes the itching worse. So, just don’t – all right?”

 

“All right,” Enjolras says. “I’m sorry, you should have said. I didn’t know.”

 

“So it’s my fault for not saying?”

 

“’Fey I didn’t mean…”

 

“Oh, just leave me alone, Enjolras.” Courfeyrac begins to cough again, curling in on himself into the arm of the sofa – away from Enjolras.

 

Reminding himself that Courfeyrac has a raging temperature, prickling, itching skin, and hasn’t left the house in three days, Enjolras swallows any retort that might be forming and stands up.

 

“I’ll make you some tea,” he says steadily. “It might help your throat.”

 

He walks into the kitchen and closes the door behind him.

 

“Oi, have you forgotten what ‘banished’…” Grantaire stops talking as he looks up from the pan he’s stirring to see Enjolras leaning heavily against the counter. “Everything ok?”

 

“Are people normally bad tempered when they’re ill?”

 

“Well, if you’re anything to go by then…”

 

“Oh, not that again, please.” Enjolras sounds so genuinely exasperated that Grantaire drops the teasing.

 

“What’s the matter? You’re worried about Courfeyrac?”

 

Enjolras nods.

 

“Normally, he won’t be by himself when he’s ill. When the three of us all ended up in bed with the ‘flu once, he wouldn’t even sleep without one of us next to him. Now he bites my head off for touching him and tells me to leave him alone. Yes, I’m worried.”

 

“He snapped at me earlier,” Grantaire admits. “But that was probably something I said. It usually is.”

 

“Don’t say that. It’s not true.” Their eyes meet again for a moment, and there’s a pause before the thought of Courfeyrac in the next room brings Enjolras back to the matter at hand, and he turns away to flick on the kettle.

 

“Will you try talking to him?” Enjolras asks.

 

“I think I’ll probably make his temper worse.”

 

“Please? Just see if there’s anything he wants.”

 

Grantaire looks hesitant for a moment, and then says, “I’ll try. If I don’t come back, and dinner is ruined, then you’re to blame.”

 

Turning down the heat under one of the pots, Grantiare places the wooden spoon across its rim. Hand on the kitchen door handle, he pauses and looks over his shoulder.

 

“I’m going outside. I may be some time.”

 

Enjolras can’t help but smile. Grantaire winks, and slips into the living room, leaving the door open behind him.

 

Courfeyrac’s chills have clearly returned, because he’s retrieved a blanket from the floor and has wrapped it around himself clumsily, probably too tired and achy to do a better job. And he looks thoroughly miserable.

 

“How are you feeling?”

 

“How do you bloody think?” Courfeyrac snaps, beyond sick of that question. But he sounds more exhausted than angry.

 

Grantaire’s eyebrows shoot into his hairline and he throws a wary look back towards the kitchen.

 

“Sorry.” He says with a half smile. “Habit. Stupid question. Enjolras was… That is, we both were wondering if you needed anything?”

 

As the kettle begins to bubble in the background, Courfeyrac asks in a very small voice, “Is Enjolras making tea?”

 

“Yep,” Grantaire nods.

 

“Tea would be nice.”

 

“Tea we can do,” Grantaire says with a warm smile, which Courfeyrac – who looks almost tearful now – can’t really return. “Anything else?”

 

Courfeyrac swallows hard, winces, and shakes his head.

 

“Well?” Enjolras asks, once Grantaire has closed the kitchen door behind him.

 

“Just tea. And sympathy, I think.”

 

“Should we be worried?” Enjolras asks suddenly. “I know we talked about this earlier, and you said it’s just the chicken pox. But how sick do people get with chicken pox?”

 

“I don’t know – don’t even remember how ill I was with it as a child. But he’s still coherent, right? And he ate something, and he wants tea – all good signs?” But Grantaire doesn’t sound quite as convinced as he did earlier than morning.

 

“Yeah, I suppose.” Enjolras pours boiling water over a tea bag and pokes it around a bit with a spoon.

 

“And Combeferre will be home in a couple of hours. He can decide is anything’s really wrong then.”

 

“Right. Good point.” As he fishes out the teabag and adds milk, Enjolras wonders which of the three of them will be most glad to see Combeferre this evening. “Ok, then. Tea. Wish me luck.”

 

Grantaire grins and nods, and turns back to his cooking.

 

“Here we are then.” Enjolras hands the mug of tea to Courfeyrac, who cradles it to his chest like a hot water bottle, and shivers. “Cold?” Enjolras asks.

 

Courfeyrac’s lip trembles and he nods.

 

“Your fever might be going up again. Do you want to cuddle to get warm?”

To Enjolras’ growing alarm, Courfeyrac shakes his head. “I’ll get too hot, and then I’ll itch.”

 

He fiddles with the blanket, looking very much as if he’s fighting tears. “Sorry I snapped…I’m just…I just really want it all to go away now.” He whispers, voice quiet and thick.

 

“You know I’d take it away in a heartbeat, if I could.” Enjolras whispers back, crouching beside the sofa and tentatively reaching over to brush Courfeyrac’s curls out of his eyes, appreciating not for the first time how difficult this must be for Courfeyrac to cope with. Courfeyrac isn’t vain, but he’s aware of his looks, and Enjolras knows him better than a brother and understands that for all his confidence Courfeyrac has insecurities as does any man; he questions how much of his personality, his affability is tied up in his looks. To Enjolras, who doesn’t overly think about appearances, the answer is simple, none of it; Courfeyrac is beautiful because of his soul. But poorly, feverish, itching and covered in spots, Courfeyrac is struggling to cope. “I’m sorry it’s me here, and not Combeferre, I’m doing my best. I just wish I could fix it for you.” He says gently.

 

Courfeyrac bites his lip, eyes burning but determined not to let tears fall. “I like having you look after me, ‘jol. I’m sorry, I don’t know why I’m being like this, I don’t mean to be…it’s like some kind of monster takes me over and says things I don’t mean. I’m really sorry.”

 

“You don’t have anything to be sorry for. You’re being this way because you have a high temperature, and I’m sorry if I’m being over bearing, but I’m worried about you. So…can I feel?” Enjolras asks, trying to be understanding and sympathetic to Courfeyrac’s irritability.

 

Courfeyrac hesitates but then nods and leans into Enjolras’s touch with a sigh, which Enjolras echoes; he’d much rather have a poorly Courfeyrac who takes comfort from touch than the miserable, irritable one who can’t stand it. It’s so unlike Courfeyrac, ill or well, to not want touch in some form, and Enjolras finds he’s not sure how to offer much comfort in any other way.

 

“That nice?” He asks, as Courfeyrac sighs again and finally, settles against him.

 

Courfeyrac nods into his hand. “Y’r hands ‘r’ cold.” He mumbles. “Don’t understand it…feel all shivery, but my face is burning.”

 

“Ah. Here then.” He switches hands when he feels one grow warm from Courfeyrac’s forehead.

 

“Cold hands, warm heart.” Courfeyrac says sleepily, tapping a finger on Enjolras’ chest, over said heart.

 

“So they say.” Enjolras pets Courfeyrac’s hair with his free hand. “Oh. I’ve had an idea. Let me up...”

 

Courfeyrac makes a noise of protest, sounding much like a wounded puppy.

 

“For two minutes, I’ll be right back.”

 

Courfeyrac takes a sip of the tea, before putting it down and pressing his own hand to his hot head. It’s not the same. Enjolras’ hands are nice and cool and comforting, his own feel clammy and all together unpleasant. He closes his eyes and nestles back into the pillows on the sofa, trying to find a cool spot that mimics Enjolras’s touch.

 

He opens his eyes when something wonderfully cold presses against his forehead.

 

“I’m not sure why I didn’t think of this before.” Enjolras says holding up an ice pack that they usually have in the freezer, mostly to deal with Enjolras’ migraines, occasionally the odd strain or sprain or bruise. “Here, sit forward for a sec...”

 

Courfeyrac complies and feels another patch of cool on the back of his neck and finds himself propped up on a pillow resting against Enjolras’ lap.

 

Enjolras is leaning over him now and he feels another two ice packs pressed inside his elbows and another two against his wrists. “I seem to remember Combeferre doing this to me once when I was poorly. It helped. Is it helping?”

 

Courfeyrac nods because the urge to rip his own skin off is fading and he feels like he can lie very still and just enjoy the cool spreading over his body.

 

The backs of Enjolras’ cool fingers are stroking across his feverish cheeks, and Courfeyrac closes his eyes – trying to focus on that sensation rather than vestiges of itching that remain.

 

“Tired?” Enjolras’s voice is soft and low.

 

Courfeyrac blinks his eyes open.

 

“And bored.” Courfeyrac whispers.

 

“We could play dot to dot on your chest?” Enjolras says, poorly restraining a smirk.

 

Courfeyrac throws him a filthy look and huffs.

 

“Oh...’Fey. Come on. I’m sorry.” Enjolras hesitantly touches Courfeyrac’s shoulder, only to be rebuffed. Cautiously, he leans over to press a kiss to Courfeyrac’s temple, then to his cheek, his neck and wherever he can reach.

 

Courfeyrac can’t help it, he has to laugh. Enjolras is so rarely like this, playful, it is hard not to indulge him.

 

“Stop! Stop! You really are making me itch.” He manages between giggle after a minute.

 

“Sorry.” Enjolras is apologetic but grinning, his hair in complete disarray, standing out in a fluffy mass around his head from the tussle. Courfeyrac elects not to tell him.

 

“So just how long have you been sitting on that truly horrendous joke?” Courfeyrac asks.

 

“Mmm. About 2 hours.” Enjolras admits. “I am sorry. Come on, I’ll make it up to you.” Gently leaning Courferyrac forward, he rearranges the pillows behind him, and retrieves one of the blankets which is still floor and tucks it over Courfeyrac’s legs, adjusting the other blanket which is already over his shoulders. Then, he lays Courfeyrac and the pillows against himself – hopefully providing enough contact to be comforting, but not so much as to make Courfeyrac hot and itchy once again. Then, slowly and softly, Enjolras begins to card his fingers through Courfeyrac’s curls.

 

“That’s not fair. How do you expect me to remain angry with you if you play with my hair? Most underhanded tactics.” But, as predicted, Courfeyrac’s eyes have fallen closed again and his face is relaxed and blissful.

 

“You can never stay angry with me.” Enjolras replies.

 

“Mmm...” Is the only response Courfeyrac gives, lost to the tender ministrations of Enjolras’ clever fingers and the growing need to sleep.

 

Please comment, it's much appreciated!

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are always, always appreciated and I enjoy a prompt too if you are so inclined!


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